tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26295786625326298622014-10-03T00:58:29.478-07:00StoriesD.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-74745069734740521742013-01-09T09:00:00.001-08:002013-01-09T09:00:54.848-08:00JenniferJennifer<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Jennifer<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Strange things sometimes happened at the café. Mostly all was normal, mind you, otherwise it wouldn’t be a café, a place where people come to relax among others, a place where tapping away on a laptop is accompanied by a periphery of human shapes and sounds, comforting, assuring. After all these people were quite capable of working at home in the quiet of their own private space and in fact most did for many hours a day and yet they still felt the need to occasionally go where others were doing the same thing, each at their own table, rummaging through websites, blogging, writing letters of application, buying and selling, even composing great works of literature, or bits of nonsense to amuse their friends. But such a background of busy normalcy must have a counterpoint of some kind, even if that counterpoint is encountered rarely, once in a blue moon.<br /><br />Jennifer came into the café every day, twice a day, once in the morning at eight and again at three in the afternoon. She brought a laptop with her, a Mac, but seldom turned it on. Instead she filled page after page of hard covered notebook with a precise, neat, tiny script, the content of which everyone in the café, even the most uncommunicative, speculated upon. The shy kept their speculations to themselves whereas the bold spoke about them with one another. Some thought she was writing a novel. Others thought she was keeping a journal, a boring, literal journal filled with the mundane details of her everyday life. One of the bold, an ancient professor pensioned off thirty years previously after making indecent suggestions to young women students, asked her outright but received nothing in reply but a smile and evasions. Some, while passing her table, tried to make out the script but it was too small to read from afar and all they came away with was that it was exceptionally neat and tiny. The old professor gave the opinion that such a neat script could only come from the hand of a woman educated by French nuns. He believed that her lack of response to male flirtation was a by product of such an education, the result of which, in all too many cases as far as he was concerned, was what he called ‘Christian Frigidity’, a state where the victims, as the professor termed them, were incapable of sexual response, other than, perhaps, to French nuns or the nubile students to be found in their academies. The professor held that this kind of education was an abomination and the cause of most problems in the modern world. <br /><br />What Jennifer was actually writing we don’t know but whatever it was it was long winded. According to the estimate of the café owner, a tall elegant man with roaming eyes and a loud voice, Jennifer had filled twelve of the notebooks since coming to the café some seven months before. These types of notebooks contained sixty-two pages, a fact the owner knew well for he owned a stationary store in the downtown which sold them. Sixty-two times twelve is seven hundred and forty-four pages, Considering that her script was tiny and that she completely filled the pages, starting at the very top and finishing at the very bottom, the owner estimated that if typed and printed the number of pages would be over one thousand. ‘War and Peace’ is what? – thirteen hundred? Another month or so would get her past Tolstoy’s novel and well into the range of ‘Remembrance of Things Past’, although many would say that Proust’s work was really a series of connected novels rather than a single work.<br /><br />Gregor thought it unlikely that Jennifer was writing a novel. She seldom spoke but when she did she did not display any of the intelligence or command of language Gregor thought necessary for the composition of a novel. If she were writing anything literary he thought it more likely that it was a confessional piece, very modern, full of megalomanias and self justifications. People who wrote this sort of thing could go on forever flooding the world with their personal revelations which would no doubt, as in the case of not a few such writers, find a champion or two among desperate academics searching for a niche where they could expostulate without fear of contradiction other than from the odd fellow obsessive.<br /><br />Rudolf thought Jennifer a neurotic filling the pages of her journals with gibberish. Doing so in the café, he claimed, created a kind of shadow audience which compensated for the fact that her scribblings would never find a real one. Although he thought Jennifer neurotic and engaged in a useless and self indulgent chore, he liked her for she was good looking, friendly and brought to the café a certain allure of mystery and muted sexuality. Otherwise the place would be even more boring than it already was. There were far too many old men like himself, superannuated has beens who even when they had been were nothing much to talk about. It was Rudolf’s opinion that among the city’s educated classes the ideal personality type was that of a bureaucrat – soft spoken, anonymous, self effacing, who never had an opinion on anything and thought those who did to be rude and inconsiderate. The café was full of these people, ‘dwarf servants of collegiality’ Rudolf called them. Their utterances were so commonplace, unoriginal and so devoid of emotion or imaginative excitement that an excitable man like Rudolf, if he arrived before Gregor and Andrew and sat by himself, waiting, felt he had been plunged into a dreadful surrealist movie where the protagonist finds himself in public place filled with animated corpses.<br /><br />Andrew thought Jennifer to be in need of a philosophy to console her for the lost love he was sure she had suffered. This philosophy would allow her to be comfortable in herself and at peace with the world and thus free from obsessive scribbling. (He was sure it was obsessive) He was also sure that all obsessive behavior was a substitute for wise vision which he considered indispensable for defeating the consumerist illusions created by the modern world. As well he thought that it might not be such a bad idea that she find a new lover to distract her from the loss of the old, although it was unlikely she would find one here among the pensioned off fossils surrounding. It would be better if she went off to a café where there were people her own age. But he thought the gap of age and experience between him and her far to wide and deep for him to make any effort at benevolent counselling. He was afraid any such attempt would be interpreted by both the young woman and his own friends and acquaintances as sexual and predatory. He did not want to place himself in the category the professor was in, that of drooling old fools whose mind fail to keep up with both their appearance and their chemistry.<br /><br />The owner, Fritz by name, had no opinion on Jennifer, or at least none he was willing to express. Café owners are like the madams of brothels – they must be catholic and universal, appreciators of all tastes or, at least, to seem to be so. Judgment is bad for business and, besides, exhausting when you deal everyday with hundreds of people representing a microcosm of the human race with all its quirks, eccentricities, perversions, egoisms and extravagances. To judge them all would be so depleting that one would be left incapable of filling the coffee cups or washing the pie plates. Far better to keep one’s mind on one’s own business and leave them to their own devices. Yet Fritz did have some feeling for Jennifer, whom he liked, an avuncular feeling that wished her well, appreciated her beauty and was glad of her business, for besides the coffee and pie she bought twice a day, he was sure when she was there many of the old codgers lingered longer, purchasing an extra cup of coffee and a cookie or two. But he had a daughter five years older than Jennifer and experience had taught him that young women have their own paths which could only be vaguely discerned from the far away world of an older man and it was best to be friendly and supporting but not interfere.<br /><br />Jennifer was tall, over six feet. In certain men this excites the imagination for they dream of such sensuous length stretched out before them in the same way Baudelaire dreamt of Giantesses upon whose breast he lay in a swoon of infantile delight. No doubt this is the great mother who has a place in the dreams of all men even the most lusty and aggressive, if we are to believe the stories of dying soldiers crying out pathetically for their mothers. Our mothers are where we come from in the most simple and ordinary way and in the extreme moments of our lives the abstractions of intellect and religion are of no use to us.<br /><br />She walked with a bit of a stoop as tall women often do, perhaps from embarrassment that their eyes are above the level of most men’s or that their breasts are at the level of many men’s mouths. She was quite aware that her presence in a café whose patrons were mostly men and older ones at that, made a stir. But then again the presence of a tall, beautiful woman makes a stir anywhere, even in a church or at a papal reception. The café was across the street from her block and she was unwilling to travel the two kilometers to get to another. Besides if she went to a café frequented by the young, the beaus would hit on her and she would be forced to waste time fending them off and putting up with their explosions of pique. At the café she was treated, discounting the professor’s occasional senile attempt to resurrect a Don Juan of some fifty years before, with the friendliness older men extend to a daughter’s friends. They chatted a few moments and then left her to her scribbling, pausing now and then to gaze at her speculatively out of the corner of a non-committal eye.<br /><br />No one knew where Jennifer came from but it was clear she did not come from the city or any of the small towns scattered in a great circle around it for she had an obscure accent best described as a dash of the American south combined with a touch of middle European. It was very light, a matter more of cadence than the pronunciation of specific, individual words. Gregor thought it gave to her speech an elegant distinction. Rudolf thought it added the flavours of garlic and mint to the pleasant musical lilt of the young woman’s voice. It reminded Andrew of mystical mysterious women he had seen portrayed in movies, women free from modern rationalism, still carrying about them a slight scent of the barbarous past. The professor’s swashbuckling attempts at encounter included direct questions about her place of origin but Jennifer had deftly turned them aside. One patron claimed his analysis of her accent told him she came from Vienna. Another said there was no doubt in his mind she hailed from Memphis, Tennessee, from the elites and had been educated in private schools. This may have been true, at least the private schools part, for, as far as anyone knew, she didn’t work and must have had some source of private income. And her wonderful, lucid writing script suggested something other than public schools. The professor may have been right when he claimed she was taught by French nuns. When asked why not Irish nuns he snorted, “Irish nuns teach uniformity of script. For beauty and compactness the French version must be relied upon.” The professor, in the far off mists of his youth, had been briefly taught by Irish nuns and he did not have a good opinion of them. “Mean and vicious,” he called them. “Mother Mary with switch and stilletto.”<br /><br />For seven months Jennifer came to the café regularly. Unlike Robotman her times of arrival and departure varied but she was there every morning and afternoon, excepting Sunday, of course, when the café opened at noon. Then one Thursday she failed to show. Friday came and went with no Jennifer and then the weekend and into the next week.<br /><br />“Perhaps,” said the professor, “we should send a delegation over to talk to the superintendent of her building. She may be sick.”<br /><br />Some of the patrons kicked this around for a bit but, as no one was willing to join a delegation, the suggestion died a natural death. Andrew, however, took it upon himself to visit the super that evening when he was in the neighbourhood. The super was an old school friend. Although Andrew had to endure his old friend’s smirk, he did learn that Jennifer had gone away quite suddenly the week before. She left the building early in the morning carrying two suitcases and climbed into a cab. No, the super had no idea where she went or even if she was coming back. Jennifer paid her rent a year in advance in cash. She could stay away four months and the apartment would still be hers. Yes, he had used his passkey to enter the apartment and have a look. He considered it his duty under the circumstances. Everything was normal. Jennifer was a very neat and tidy person and the place was immaculately clean. Notebooks? No, he hadn’t noticed any notebooks. They were either hidden away in a locked drawer or she had taken them with her.<br /><br />There was a patio at the back of the block and Andrew and the super sat there to drink the mickey of scotch Andrew brought with him. They poured their drinks into ancient melamine cups and added coke and ice. It was a pleasant place to get mildly sloshed – glossy leafed lilacs blooming, a cool breeze after a hot day, birds singing in the trees. The patio’s floor was a mixture of irregular stones with varied textures fitted together and sunk into a bed of mortar. There was bright green moss extending from one end of it to a wrought iron fence. The other end was a stretch of well tended grass ending at the sidewalk. An old man came through the back door to have a cigarette and then go back to his apartment but other than that they had the place to themselves.<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp;Twice, in the wee hours, the super told Andrew, there had been loud shouts from Jennifer’s apartment. The super heard them for he lived a floor below, one apartment over and was a light sleeper. It was a woman shouting and it soon ended. After lying awake for a time wondering if he should get out of bed and knock at her door, he decided it was a nightmare. This occurred first in the second month after she moved in and again two days before she left in the cab. When Andrew left three hours later he walked home, leaving his car in the block’s parking lot. Although he had drunk only one third of the mickey, that is a little over four ounces, he didn’t want to take the chance on being stopped. It didn’t take much to be over .08.<br /><br />A month passed by and Jennifer did not reappear. Speculation ran amuck. Perhaps she had been kidnapped. Perhaps someone from the past had blackmailed her. Maybe a relative died. Perhaps she was really a high class call girl and had gone back to her city of origin and resumed her profession. Maybe she had finished her writings in the notebooks and had simply gone back to where she came from. Perhaps she had moved from one section of the city to another to avoid a bothersome man. The professor wondered if she was an undercover agent of some kind.<br /><br />“What kind?” asked Rudolf. “One who spies on old geezers to find out how they are spending their pensions?”<br /><br />The professor did not appreciate this remark. Rudolf had a reputation for being rough tongued. The professor told his friends Rudolf was rude and uneducated.<br /><br />“You shouldn’t taunt the old man like that,” Andrew told him. “He might die of a heart attack or a stroke.”<br /><br />“That wouldn’t be such a bad way for the old buzzard to go,” said Rudolf.<br /><br /><br />When the year on the apartment was almost up, the superintendent received a letter from Jennifer. It contained two thousand dollars in cash and instructions to have the furniture, etc, forwarded to an address in a large city to the east, COD. The super was delighted. Two thousand was a fortune to him and he did as he was asked. Men from a inter continental moving company were called in, and, after packing everything up very carefully, they loaded it into a large trailer and drove away. The super told Andrew but Andrew did not tell the other patrons at the café. He decided it was none of their business. He did tell Rudolf and Gregor. They were old friends and it seemed like a betrayal not to.<br /><br />Nobody heard of Jennifer for two more years. So much time passed by that she was now seldom spoken of. Then Andrew received a call from his friend the superintendent.<br /><br />“I have something you would like to have a look at,” he said.<br /><br />“What?” asked Andrew.<br /><br />“A photograph.”<br /><br />“What kind of photograph?<br />“When you come I’ll show you. Tonight at eight?”<br /><br />“OK then,” said Andrew. His friend had a paranoid, secretive side. Best to play along.<br /><br />When he arrived at the super’s apartment, Dominic first took the mickey bottle and poured them both a generous drink. Then he sat Andrew down at his desk in the corner, under the light of a bright florescent lamp and spread out a sheet of newspaper on the desktop. A photograph, a large one filling in the top half of the page. There was Jennifer, or at least a woman who looked like Jennifer, dressed in a fancy dress gown, hair done up professionally, bejeweled, Andrew was glad to see, in an elegant, simple but no doubt expensive manner. She was on the arm of a middle aged man. Andrew recognized the man right away. He was a plutocrat who controlled a whole stable of international corporations. He had an unsavory reputation. Some claimed he was a legalized gangster and that his father and grandfather had knocked people off as an everyday way of doing business. Andrew read the caption. They were man and wife. The caption called her ‘the fabulous Mrs…., wealthy socialite’.<br /><br />Andrew stared at the photograph for some time and then said, “Well, it sure looks like her but two people can look remarkably alike, especially in a newspaper photograph.”<br /><br />“True,” said Dominic, “but I have more. When they print the resolution is not so good but the original digital is. I have an old pal at the newspaper and he emailed me this. Here.”<br /><br />He reached out and turned on the computer. He selected a photo file and brought it up on the screen. The computer was a desktop with a 27 inch screen, (Andrew suspected Dominic watched porno on it) and the resolution was excellent, fabulous. It was Jennifer all right. There was the characteristic mildly smirky smile and the slight hint of the birthmark she had on the left side of her forehead, just below the hairline, imperfectly covered by the makeup she was wearing.<br /><br />“Holy crap, isn’t that weird?” said Andrew.<br /><br />“It certainly is,” said Dominic. <br /><br /><br />It took several days for the news to filter into the café for the paper carrying the picture was a scandal sheet and the café patrons took pride in not allowing it in the door. It was the professor who brought in a copy, waving it above his head as if he were a newspaper boy selling extras in a classic American film. Everyone gathered at the front counter for a quick look and then it was passed around from table to table for closer inspection.<br /><br />The professor spent the rest of the morning tediously telling everyone who would listen how he had come upon the photograph. Apparently he stepped into a greasy spoon on a charitable errand (unbelievable for everyone knew the professor did not do charitable errands) when he saw the photo staring up at him from the front counter. It was a matter of pure happenstance he said. Otherwise no one would ever have known. This was untrue. The professor subscribed to the scandal sheet. He liked glossy photos of celebrities and spent a half an hour every day looking at them.<br /><br />Andrew did not mention to anyone, even his friends, that he already knew, he had already seen the photo. He acted surprised as if he were seeing it for the first time. He was a little sad about the whole thing for he had a great affection for Jennifer and once had, in the odd moment of day dreaming, the fantasy that given the right circumstances they might have warmed to one another and made a trade of physical beauty for the beauties of mystical philosophy.<br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-38641319604873923552012-12-21T08:43:00.001-08:002012-12-21T08:43:30.393-08:00The Greatcoat Man<br /><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;">The Greatcoat Man</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">If you walk down Vical street early in the morning you would think it sedate, well ordered, regal even. Tall brick houses (some four story) spread out across half acre lots, surrounded by old trees with canopies up to sixty feet, hedges, elaborate flower beds professionally tended,&nbsp; immaculate lawns as crisp as a marine haircut, three car garages. Not the new burbs of course but there are those who think the new burbs vulgar - bald, with ugly squarish houses resembling industrial buildings, phoney Greek columns tacked on. But it's the new rich who occupy the new burbs, the ones with enough money to allow a host of 'new look' designers to set up a new fresh, exciting environment remarkably similar to the new fresh exciting environments a few blocks over. Vical street is old business class and professors, the ones who liked a little history and tradition to go with their bank accounts.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">How Jeffrey ever ended up living in a garage on Vical Street was a mystery to many for homeless persons usually live in poor areas with ramshackle houses squeezed in among second hand car lots, train yards, scrap dealers. But if you were a person who talks to people the mystery was easily solvable by simply talking to Jeffrey himself, a most affable chatty man who could be found in many public places in the course of his daily rounds - the grocery store, the cafe, the riverbank (if the weather was warm) and, most especially at the free lunch given out by the Baptist church six blocks over. Or you could talk to the lady who owns the garage Jeffrey lives in and if you did she would tell you (if she trusted you for she was leery of social workers, policemen, city inspectors, etc.) that she went to school with Jeffrey some fifty years before and could not bear to see the man sleeping under the nearby bridge beside the library wrapped in a vast cocoon of ratty sleeping bags, newspapers and plastic sheeting. When she found him there for the first time&nbsp; it took her fifteen times talking to him before he replied. The fifteen times were discrete, accomplished on fifteen separate days, the first fourteen eliciting no reply (although in no way a rejection either for Jeffrey had smiled and nodded all during her monologues as if he were listening to a radio show and he was not the sort of man who added his own comments, at least out loud). On the fifteenth day, Eloise, easily the most patient woman in the world, after handing him the coffee and donut she brought him after the first morning, asked him if he had a place for the winter (it was October 15th and that is late in such a cold winter city) and, after smiling broadly then breaking into a good humoured laugh as if Eloise had just told him a mildly amusing joke, he said, "No, goddamn, no, no no, of course not." somewhat impatiently for a woman like Eloise who talked so much should know better than that.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well then," said Eloise, "you can sleep in my garage." This was the perfect thing for Eloise to say. If she had invited him to sleep in her house, which she could have easily done for it had seven empty bedrooms, Jeffrey would have taken flight and never spoken to her again. Jeffrey had once lived in houses and had vowed never to do so again not so much that houses were terrible places as what went along with them was terrible - people asking you all sorts of questions and insisting you do things. Garages were different, especially Eloise's garage. Her's was an isolated garage at the end of a long driveway, some fifty feet from the riverbank. Eloise's big brick house hid it from the street and there was a path up from the riverbank leading to its side door. Eloise, although a bit dense at times from living a life of social isolation (no children, widowed and wealthy at thirty who other than her morning walks, seldom left the house), was divinely astute when it came to Jeffrey. Although she talked 'a blue streak' as they say, Eloise was one of those who could talk and see, observe, feel at the same time. Jeffrey agreed to take a look at the garage that very moment and off they went together if you could call Eloise marching along briskly, Jeffrey trailing along behind muttering to himself, together. When he saw the garage Jeffrey was ecstatic on the inside but on the outside maintained a fierce facade of neutrality. He poked around in the garages dusty interior, looked out through its two dirty windows, opened and closed the door of the iron stove, inspected the wooden ceiling for signs of leaks and so on for so long Eloise grew tired of standing watching him.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well?" she asked.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"How much?" replied Jeffrey.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">That she would charge rent never occurred to Eloise but she saw immediately that a business arrangement was necessary. "Twenty dollars a month," she replied without missing a beat.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Fifty would be better," replied Jeffrey.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Split the difference - Thirty-five," said Eloise.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Thirty and I shovel the walk, cut the grass," said Jeffrey.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"That much work should make it twenty-five," replied Eloise.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Twenty-five is good but since I'm supplying the wood then twenty-two fifty."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Done," said Eloise and Jeffrey removed his right hand trappers mitt and they shook to seal the deal. Then he pulled a weathered wallet from an inside pocket (Jeffrey was so well layered he had, perhaps, ten or fifteen inside pockets) and counted out twenty-two dollars and fifty cents. Eloise deposited the bills and coin in her jacket pocket and went into the house.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">The first sign of Jeffrey's occupancy was smoke curling up from the chimney. But this was not a sure sign for Eloise herself might have fired up the old stove although it hadn't been fired up for thirty years. She was supposed to be an artist of some sort so possibly she was now using the garage for a studio. The second sign was, when the snow came (early that year - November 6th), Jeffrey shovelling the walk. However there was not a necessary link between the walk shovelling and the smoke curling. Jeffrey could have been sent over from the local homeless shelter and paid so much a time. So a third sign was necessary and the third sign was Jeffrey walking up from the riverbank pulling behind him a sled loaded with wood and entering the garage's side door. Mr. Conkglin saw this while he was looking out his rear kitchen window. "An old bum wearing a greatcoat left over from the First World War," he told Mrs. Fingle, his neighbour on the other side. Indeed Jeffrey was wearing an old greatcoat but it was army surplus from the Fifties and not left over from the First World War. It was too big for him and thus allowed him to wear a mixture of wool sweaters and new fangled fleece vests underneath it and also to withdraw his mittened hands up into the warm and windless interior of its overly long sleeves..&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">This knowledge stopped with Mr. Conkglin and Mrs. Fingle for some time. Neither were scandalized by 'old bums' as Mr. Conkglin called Jeffrey and thought if he lived in the garage and shovelled the walk that was his business and a matter between him and Eloise. But Mrs. Fingle did mention it to the members of her bridge club which met every Tuesday evening, revolving the meeting location among the houses of the members. It so happened that that week they were meeting at Mrs. Fingle's house and one of the women, one Joan Memora, a doctor's wife who lived six houses down, kept looking out the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the old bum. It was the night of the full moon in December and its light reflecting off the fresh snow gave her a good view of Jeffrey as he laboured up the path from the river bank pulling his sled loaded with scrap wood and entered the side door. A few minutes later dark smoke began drifting out the chimney.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">All doctor's wives do not have a germ and bug phobia but Joan Memora did. When she saw Jeffrey, with his long straggly hair sticking out from under his trappers hat, wrapped in a greatcoat so soiled it looked as if it were used to clean a gutter, she could not help but think of bugs and germs and give out an involuntary shudder. Although, granted, he lived in a garage seven houses away for her own house, she was sure nature could easily devise a way for contamination to find its way across such a paltry distance. Joan had no children but there were many in the neighbourhood. She had heard many times, from good sources who also shared her bug and germ phobias, that such dirty old men frequently snatch children off the street and they are never heard from again. Either the children are sold through a network of confreres or they are used for unspeakable perversions, then murdered and their bodies dumped in the river. Later that night she spoke with her husband who pooh pahed the whole thing, telling her her fears existed only in her imagination "There are more pedophiles at a church meeting," he told her, "than among a gathering of street people." But she was not convinced. Her husband had a too cavalier attitude about the dangers of this world and was an untrustworthy guide. She spoke with some of her girlfriends who assured her that it was not a matter to be taken lightly. Men by their very nature, one of them told her, are predators and this makes for them a bond, unconscious in most cases thank God or all women would be lesbians, with even the most heinous of criminal perverts. "In such matters," her friend said, "asking men their opinions is useless for their sublimated tribal allegiance overrides everything."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Joan phoned her city Alderman. She asked him several questions about bylaws which he answered cautiously for he had had dealings with Joan in the past and had found that an attitude of gentle discouragement was the best policy. First she wanted to know about regulations having to do with 'living in garages' as she put it.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Usually people live in houses," replied the Alderman.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"I know that," said Joan. "But I am not talking about people who live in houses. I am talking about filthy old men who live in garages. What are the regulations?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well," said the Alderman, "I suppose it depends on what kind of garage and so on."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"What do you mean by 'what kind of garage'? A garage is a garage, isn't it?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Yes, but then what one person thinks a garage could be considered by another to be a guest house. Some people have guest houses where relatives stay when they come to visit."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well the garage I'm talking about is just a garage."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Are you sure?" asked the Alderman. "Have you been in it?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Of course I haven't been in it." said Joan. "I am not in the habit of lurking about on other people's property and going into their garages."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"I'm glad to hear that, Mrs. Memora. But exactly what kind of building it is is crucial. If, for instance, it is a guest house, then someone could live there."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"So how do I find out whether it is a garage or a guest house?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Properties could tell you. But before you phone them let me tell you another thing. Even if the building in question is not a guest house but a garage, then, although it is against regulations, sometimes people do live in them."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"And what does that mean?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Exactly what I said. Economic turndowns create a lot of poor unemployed people. Sometimes they take to living in garages."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"But illegally."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Yes, illegally. But sometimes the city turns a blind eye. We have so may resources and people have to live somewhere."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"But that is anarchy!"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Call it what you will, Mrs. Memoir, but it happens. As I say we have so many resources. Getting up legal cases, calling in bailiffs and policemen, all these are expensive. If we pursued every Bylaw violation as if it were an absolute then taxes would have to go up astronomically and people would like that even less than the occasional unenforced Bylaw."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Joan's opinion of the Alderman, not very high to begin with, was not improved by this conversation. A do nothing. A big bum sitting in a padded seat. A brainless blob with a cheshire cat smile.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Properties, after much cajoling and waiting to be connected to someone who then connected you to someone else, finally told her Eloise Banning's garage was indeed a garage and not a guest house. The next day she phoned the Alderman again.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"In law, Mrs. Memora," said the Alderman, "there is a matter of proof, of evidence. For example, is the older gentleman you are referring to actually living in the garage? I know you saw him pulling a sled full of wood into the garage but that does not necessarily mean that he lives there. Possibly he may be simply using the garage for storage."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"But he burns wood in the stove," Joan replied. "You can see the smoke rising from the chimney."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well," said the Alderman, "Perhaps he does a bit of work in the garage and burns wood to keep himself warm."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well then," said Joan, "you will just have to investigate and find out."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"That would require a form 555713B," said the Alderman.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"What's that?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"A Bylaw Violation Complaint Form. By filling out one your complaint will enter the process and eventually be considered for investigation."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"And how long does this process take?"&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"The clerks could tell you better than I," said the Alderman, smiling unconsciously at the pleasure of handing Mrs. Memora off to the bureaucrats. "Good luck," he added and hung up the phone.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">555713B was a long form and it took Joan a half hour to complete it. Bylaw Violations was obviously low down in the city food chain. It was located in what seemed to Joan an abandoned warehouse, at the back. The yard, as you walked up to the door was filled with rusting heavy equipment parts. The entry door was multicoloured, not by design but because it was aged and peeling. A cardboard sign, stained and turned up at the edges, was tacked to the door by two roofing nails. Inside was only slightly warmer than the outside. The clerks wore heavy jackets and one even sported a pair of fingerless gloves. She filled out her form at a table laden with thermoses, bagged lunches and cracked coffee cups. The clerks were welcoming, so much so that she wondered if they received so little business they were desperate for company. When she passed the form over the counter the young clerk called out a person from a rear office. This person, a middle aged woman wrapped in four sweaters topped by an weather beaten wool coat, read the form very slowly and very carefully. When she was finished she said, "Thanks." She then carried the form through the door leading to the back offices.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"How long will it take?" Joan asked the clerk, a very young male, little more than a boy, with a prominent adam's apple and bad teeth.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"How long will what take?" asked the clerk.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">At first Joan thought he was being impertinent but a further searching of his pimply face informed her he was that sort of dense person to whom everything must be explained.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"I just passed in a Bylaw Violation Complaint form, 555713B. It's about an old bum sleeping in a garage in my neighbourhood. How long will it take for the matter to be investigated?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Depends," said the young man.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"On what?" Joan asked.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Three of the four supervisors are on vacation and the one not is on course. Several months I would say before it is IPed, initially processed. After that it depends on where the initial processing channels it. The devil is in the details as they say."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Several months before it is initially processed?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"O yes," said the clerk, delighted as all bureaucrats are by the note of horror in his questioners voice. "At least that. Could be much more." With this he smiled the smile of a born clerk, one who is pleased to give to the uninitiated a glimpse of the arcane and labyrinthine, the beauty of which they, as lay persons so to speak, can only appreciate up to a point. Joan looked at his pleasant blue eyes which were as serious as those of a monk or a father confessor. Perhaps he had a sense of irony she thought but it was well hidden. At his request she bought a box of cookies, a fundraiser for one of his children's cub packs. Since he looked to be about fourteen she wondered where he had found the biological time to have a child in cubs.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"They said that it would take some months before it was even initially processed," Joan said to the Alderman on the phone.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Ahhh!" replied the Alderman.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Don't you think that a long time?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Yes, indeed," said the Alderman in a tone of voice which said the exact opposite.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Perhaps you could do something to expedite the process," said Joan.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Aldermen have to be very cautious about interfering in the bureaucratic process. Best to let it churn away on its own without meddling. Meddling often only makes it worse. You would be surprised at the depths of resentment meddling can stir up. Best to let sleeping dogs lie."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Do I have to go to the Mayor?" Joan asked.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"No," said the Alderman.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"I'll see what I can do," said the Alderman. Which wasn't much. When she talked to him a week later he told her 'that things were moving along'." Joan doubted this very much so she sent a letter to the Mayor. The Mayor was on a junket in a far off country smiling and eating exotic foods and no reply should be expected for at least two months.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">One morning in January Joan rose early. This was unusual for she normally went to bed late and got up late. However, the previous night, some hours before her usual bedtime, she felt suddenly very weary and decided to go to bed. She woke very refreshed when it was still dark outside and decided to bundle up and go for a walk.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">She walked in a zigzag all through the neighbourhood remarking to herself how beautiful it was on a winter morning, the ground covered with several feet of snow and the air bitter cold. She decided to walk to the local coffee shop and have coffee and a doughnut, an offense against her latest diet but, considering the vigorous walk of, in total, one hour or so, a venial rather than a mortal sin. At the coffee shop she met Eloise. Joan was surprised. The scuttlebutt on Eloise was that she never left her house. Yet here she was standing in line at the counter dressed in an enormous parka which extended from the top of her head (the hood) to her ankles. Looking at her from the side so that she could see one eye which seemed to Joan filled with healthy vigour and even mild amusement, she thought Eloise failed to measure up to the reports she was distracted and perhaps mildly insane, just the sort of woman to install an old wino in her garage. Eloise felt Joan's eyes upon her, turned and recognized her, although they had never been formally introduced, and smiled.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"There is a man living in your garage," Joan said to her, deciding to take the direct route for many said that Eloise's mind wandered and once it wandered it was hard to bring it back again.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">&nbsp;"Yes," said Eloise. "Isn't that wonderful? It's warm in there with the wood stove going and much better than sleeping under the bridge in these kind of temperatures."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"But it's against the law," said Joan.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Many things are against the law," said Eloise, "yet people do them anyway."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Aren't you afraid of germs? What about diseases like HIV?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Usually, dear, HIV is transmitted by anal sex. Since I don't practice anal sex or sex of any description for that matter,and have not for forty years, why worry?&nbsp; Besides Jeffrey is a hypochondriac. He has been tested seventeen times for HIV. all results negative."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Don't you think he might pose a danger to the neighbourhood children?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"No more than you or I. Besides he doesn't go into the neighbourhood. I am on the edge and he comes along the riverbank. He doesn't like the neighbourhood. He says it is full of evil spirits and he avoids it like the plague."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"But surely a man who claims our neighbourhood filled with evil spirits is mad," said Joan.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"You don't think there are evil spirits in the neighbourhood?" asked Eloise.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well," said Joan, "a few perhaps but that would be metaphorically speaking." replied Joan.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Jeffrey doesn't do metaphorical, dear. Everything for him is real."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">By this time they were seated at a table each with a coffee and donut. Joan was surprised to find the place almost full. She thought only the rare person got up this early in the morning. Some were on their way to work, wolfing down coffee and a bun and bolting out the door. Others seemed as if they were coming from work, shift workers she supposed, with coats off, lounging in their chairs, if it is possible to lounge in coffee shop chairs, sipping double doubles and eating breakfast sandwiches with bright yellow egg sticking out the sides. Excepting for young children, they were of all ages and descriptions. There were even an old man she would classify as a member of Jeffry's tribe, drinking a small coffee through a jungle of scraggly beard. Eloise had a large coffee and a bun, Joan a hot chocolate and a sprinkled donut, the later being what she considered her secret vice. Joan told Eloise about her relationship with donuts.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Well," said Eloise, "if that is your secret vice then you will go to heaven for sure. Maybe a few brief moments in Purgatory but then right on to the gloriously boring. Personally I plan to spend eternity in Purgatory or even on the outskirts, hopefully just the outskirts, of Hell. I think I would meet much more interesting people there. Kissing the arse of tyrants, even if they are theological tyrants, is likely to attract only the worst kind of time serving sycophant and who wants to spend eternity with a bunch like that?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Joan didn't know what to say to this so said nothing. When they were leaving Eloise lined up at the counter to buy a coffee and two donuts for Jeffrey. The coffee she poured into a thermos she pulled from her pocket. The donuts she stuffed into the voluminous pocket on the right hand side of her parka.&nbsp;</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Outside in the cold air they walked down the street leading to Eloise's house. When they turned into the side street Eloise said, "You may as well come and meet Jeffry, dear. He's very cheerful in the morning, sitting by the hot stove smoking his pipe, waiting for his coffee. He likes company once in a while. Other than myself I mean. I'm afraid he finds me a little boring at times."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Joan, brought up in a strict code of almost professional courtesy, could find no way to refuse this offer. As they approached the garage she, stealthily she hoped, zipped up her parka as tight as it would go and stuffed her mitt tops into the sleeves, thus, she hoped, forcing any germs or bugs which might come her way to attach themselves to the outside of her clothing, where, on the walk home, they would die off in the cold.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Jeffrey, as Eloise had said he would be, was seated by the fire smoking his pipe, an enormous German pipe given him by a professor who in his old age decided to give up sucking noxious fumes into his lungs. He was seated in a old stuffed chair with comfortable rounded arms one of which Jeffrey had his legs hanging over in a picture of comfortable domestic bliss. The stove was well stuffed and the heat radiating from it was so strong even Jeffrey, who hated to be chilled, had removed most of his outer layers. He had on two pairs of long red underwear, three wool vests and a pair of bright yellow socks, or&nbsp; rather socks which were once bright yellow, now somewhat less so. Joan was surprised that even in the heat no foul smells came from his direction. On the contrary he smelt of a mixture of mild male animal and old spice, his favourite deodorent. As well, there were no unsightly messes (overflowing excrement buckets for instance) in sight. In fact the place, although humble and well worn, was neat and clean. Not far from the stove was a table, above it a small white cupboard and atop the stove was a large pot of water. There was a bed in the far corner and series of pegs along one wall where hung a motley of clothes. Below them were a line of boots and shoes for every season of the year.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">Jeffrey was not accomplished at the social graces. He ate his donuts with great gusto while Eloise found two folding chairs in a corner and brought them over for her and Joan. Conversation was limited. Joan and Eloise commented on the weather and Jeffrey nodded sagely as if he were an emperor and aides were bringing him news of great import to them, but all in a days work to him. When he was finished his donuts he washed them down with great slurps of coffee and then resumed his pipe puffing, sending clouds of whitish smoke, the particulates of which, Joan lamented in silence, settled on their coats and snowpants. After five minutes the women rose to leave and Jeffrey, spurred perhaps by the manners from a distant past, got up to see them out,&nbsp; shouting after them as they negotiated the path to the house, "Watch out for the goddamn cold, now. Watch out for the goddamn cold and the slipping too. It's just as bad."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"To withdraw Form 555713B you have to file Form 555713C-X," the Alderman told Joan over the phone. "Since Form 555713B has not been initially processed it's fairly easy. No one objects to a withdrawal of something requesting that which has not yet begun. Once it begins, now that's another matter. Yes, yes, another matter indeed. Sometimes it is impossible and things must be allowed to roll on to their natural conclusion. A certain momentum has been created against which the wishes of individuals are powerless. Luckily in this case things have not proceeded so far along they cannot be brought to a halt."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">For once Joan was glad for the slow march of city bureaucracy. Just as she was about to hang up the phone the Alderman asked her, "So this old gentleman, would his name be Jeffrey?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Why, yes it is," said Joan, a little surprised. "Do you know him?"</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"Oh yes," said the Alderman. "I went to school with his younger brother and played on the same baseball team as he for a number of years. He was a pitcher and a good one too."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"I see," said Joan.</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">"I still see him around from time to time on the streets - a nice old bindle stiff, a jolly old lag still with his sense of humour."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">When Joan mentioned the Alderman saying this in the coffee shop the next morning, Eloise laughed. "Jeffrey is his brother, dear, as much as he likes to pretend otherwise so high and mighty he has become. Birds don't shit in his path and angels from glory wipe the sweat from his brow, or so he would like to think from the vantage point of his lofty seat. Well, I suppose at least he has the honour to run a little interference for his brother once in a while which is more than you can say for many others. Not so bad, really."</div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 15px;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12px;">. &nbsp;</div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-7643721608520921042012-12-07T09:26:00.002-08:002012-12-07T09:26:49.695-08:00M. Baudelaire<br />M. Baudelaire was walking a street in the old downtown. Three AM. He had slept between the hours of ten and two but then woke feeling as if he had slept the night through. Poetry no longer called him in the wee hours so he put on his overcoat and went out the door.<br /><br />Winter. Snow which fell three days before had made its migration from purest white to tramped and coal dusted. &nbsp;Good thing he had put on his rubber boots. Along the sidewalks, where it had been churned by the feet of passersby, lay slush, beneath it a layer of icy water. Confident in his rubber M. Baudelaire strode boldly through. No one was about but then the section where he lived was quiet even during the day for it was inhabited by people of regular habits, close to the river away from bars, cafes and theatres.<br /><br />The old gas lamps had long been replaced by electric. He sometimes missed the old lamps which spread about them a yellowish haze perfect for half dreaming, half perceiving the darkened city. The electrics were whitish. In the middle of the night when respectable citizens were in their cozy beds, they turned down the intensity so that now, all along the street, were white umbrellas of light dropping their weakened beams upon the dirty snow. Like a sailor working the waters of an archipelago he made his way between these islands of light.<br /><br />After some twenty minutes he came to the front of a long brick building. In the half light it gave the appearance of a bridge tier or a blank, anonymous railway building. It had one small entrance toward the very end of its street run and he slipped into it, out of the lighted street and into almost complete darkness. He took a match from his pocket, lit it against the rough brick of the wall and inserted a key into the door. The lock turned in a heavy but well oiled fashion and he entered a foyer leading to a long corridor immediately in front of him, lit at the end by a single bald electrical bulb. To his left was an iron stair. He began his climb.<br /><br />On the sixth floor he was presented with another long corridor with another bald bulb at its end. When he reached the light he turned to the door on his right, raised his cane and, with the silver knob at its top, gave one sharp knock. At first there was no response but this was not unusual. Always, as soon as there was a knock on the door, Jeanne froze. She claimed a knock on the door was the same as someone walking over her grave. After a few moments of indecision, (M. Baudelaire pictured in his mind the expression on her face, the attitude of her body) there was the sound of slippered feet moving across the floor, stopping behind the door. Then three minutes of Jeanne sensing, with the mystic methods of her people M. Baudelaire no longer scoffed at as he did in his youth, who was behind the door. O these woman have their ways and if a man lives long enough he comes to understand them as perfectly intelligent and possibly even superior to his own.<br /><br />Jeanne opened the door. M. Baudelaire, as was his custom, walked past her to the small kitchen at the back where he took off his coat and began warming himself at the iron stove. Jeanne followed and sat at the table where she had been sitting when he knocked. Before her on the porcelain surface was a layout of tarot cards. Beside them was a glass of wine.<br /><br />"Charles," she said, "you wet my clean floor with your dirty boots."<br /><br />M. Baudelaire took off the boots and set them beside the stove. He retrieved a damp mop from the corner (kept in readiness at all times by the very tidy Jeanne) and, retracing his steps, mopped the dirty wet spots from the floor. Done, he rinsed the mop in the kitchen sink and put it back atop the rusty bucket, its resting place.<br /><br />"I received a letter from my cousin," said Jeanne.<br /><br />"The one who is dying?" asked M. Baudelaire.<br /><br />"No. The one who is dying is Francine. This is Marcella. She is the one with twelve children."<br /><br />"I thought she had thirteen?"<br /><br />"One died of whooping cough a year ago. She sent a photograph of herself and the children and sends her best wishes to you , her benefactor, as she calls you."<br /><br />"You are the benefactor dear Jeanne. You squeeze me for the money and send it along to her."<br /><br />"Excepting in your poems you have always been a man to lie about his feelings. You know very well I do not have to 'squeeze you' as you put it but, but on the contrary I have to insist on not sending too large an amount which will only spoil her."<br /><br />M. Baudelaire did not reply to this. Instead he rubbed his hands above the iron stove top and smiled in appreciation for the pleasure its warmth gave his arthritic hands.<br /><br />"Is she still in the city?"<br /><br />"No. She has taken my advice and gone back to the country where she bought a small farm. She has goats, chickens, pigs and a big garden. And those ragamuffin boys of hers play in the fields instead of learning to steal and fight on the streets."<br /><br />"There is stealing and fighting in the country as well."<br /><br />"True but less and the neighbours know you and send reports to your mama. All the older ones are going to school. You will remember the bill."<br /><br />"Ridiculously small I remember."<br /><br />"It is a poor country and the schooling is cheap."<br /><br />"Well, as long as they learn to read they can fill in the gaps for themselves."<br /><br />"The oldest already has a clerk's job in the Ministry."<br /><br />"O the poor bastard, what a fate!"<br /><br />"I would remind you he is not a French intellectual with an inheritance but a African colonial with a family he must help support."<br /><br />"Well, at least he is not responsible for the sins of the Bourgeoise who made the inheritance in the first place."<br /><br />Jeanne did not reply to this. Instead she pointed to the sideboard and said, "She sent a photograph of herself and the children."<br /><br />M. Baudelaire walked to the board and picked up the photograph. A large African woman sat on a chair in the centre of a string of children. ranging from toddlers on the right to tall gangly teenagers on the left. A very chubby baby sat on her knee. The woman was smiling broadly as if she had just received a prize for first place in something, child bearing no doubt thought M. Baudelaire. Yet he had to admit she was both an attractive and pleasing looking woman, the sort of woman one seldom saw on the streets of his own city, so miserable was the condition of the Parisian poor. The family grouping was beneath a tree. The sun was shining but then in Jeanne's home place the sun was always shining. Not like in Winter Paris where it hid all winter, a faded flower peeping between rags of dirty clouds.<br /><br />How handsome were the children, how full of life! How their bright smiles were so accentuated by the dark brown of their flawless complexions. The mother wore a kind of robe/dress which covered everything but her head, even her feet. But the children wore a hodgepodge of odds and ends, the girls dresses, the boys shorts and unbuttoned shirts (o what a kind mother she must be not to demand they button their shirts). The children had bare feet, healthy robust looking bare feet. The girls all had bone combs in their hair and the boys had their hair slicked to one side in imitation, perhaps, of a European dandy.<br /><br />"Poems are children, dear Charles."<br /><br />"Poems are ephemeral, Jeanne, and die with the man who once wrote them."<br /><br />"Well, children don't last forever either. They grow up to be adults and you seldom see them."<br /><br />M. Baudelaire said nothing to this. Instead he sat at the table across from Jeanne and watched her lay out cards.<br /><br />"For whom?" he asked.<br /><br />"Marcella's oldest," Jeanne replied. "The clerk in the Ministry."<br /><br />"That's easy then," said M. Baudelaire. "At the age of thirty-three, as a result of an acute attack of boredom, he hurls himself into the harbour and drowns."<br /><br />"Not all bureaucrats die of boredom," replied Jeanne.<br /><br />"Not all, this is true," said M. Baudelaire. "Some have been dead some years before they enter the Ministry. These are the successful ones for having been born into the world of the dead they know no other and do not mourn."<br /><br />"Nobody is born into the world of the dead, sacrilegious man."<br /><br />"I beg to differ," said M. Baudelaire. "I have known many who at least seemed to be born into the world of the dead.."<br /><br />"Seem and is are two different things. Why don't you make coffee?"<br /><br />M. Baudelaire rose and did as Jeanne suggested. While it was brewing he watched her move the cards about.<br /><br />"Well?" he asked.<br /><br />"He will marry early," said Jeanne. "A rich man's daughter from the next village."<br /><br />"She will ruin his life with her ambition," said M. Baudelaire. "In the end he will wish he went to the bordello or used his hands."<br /><br />"No. She is good woman who loves men and children, not money."<br /><br />"And the ambition?"<br /><br />"He will have his own and it will be his undoing. He will be accused of plotting against the government and will be sentenced to die along with many others."<br /><br />"Ah well," said M. Baudelaire, "At least it will be a relief from endless file reviewing."<br /><br />"He will be given a pardon," said Jeanne.<br /><br />"Friends in high places!" said M. Baudelaire. This little witticism pleased him so much he broke out laughing. When he stopped he looked at Jeanne to see if she was sharing his pleasure but she was looking back at him with a calm, steady, stare. He suddenly realized what this stare might mean.<br /><br />"Me, you mean," he asked.<br /><br />"Why not," said Jeanne.<br /><br />"I didn't think I would have to stay alive that long," said M. Baudelaire.<br /><br />"Not so long," said Jeanne. "He is already a clerk three, a great accomplishment for a African twenty year old."<br /><br /><br />M. Baudelaire had written many poems about the scented lands of colonial Africa and he had even travelled there for a brief period in his youth. But he did not take away much for his home was the cafes of Paris not the out lands of the empire. Still there was Jeanne who, despite his reputation for being sexually permissive, so vigorously promoted by himself and all those who wished to be considered his friend, was the only woman who &nbsp;became the resting place of his true affections. Granted, originally he had been attracted to the exotic element in loving an African woman, a creature who symbolized primitive, unrestrained desire and electrified his scorn for, his rebellion against, the moral guardians, but in the end he stayed long enough to see the sister where once only the beckoning wanton did appear.<br /><br />Some months after the above scene M. Baudelaire and Jeanne could be seen standing on a pier on the Seine waiting patiently (at least Jeanne was waiting patiently, M. Baudelaire was a version of his usual impatient self, modified by age and the charm of watching the fog lifting off the dirty water) for the agents to remove the barrier across the gang plank of a rusty steamer. Beside them were six trunks upon which were piled a motley array of bags, suitcases and taped cardboard boxes. M. Baudelaire was dressed in the style of a provincial notary - black suit, white shirt with tie, leather shoes polished to a shine the envy of any bureaucrat who might lay eyes upon them, laid over his shoulders to keep off the early morning chill a grey overcoat of exquisite conservative cut,<br />the material, granted, far above the reach of the income of a provincial notary. Jeanne's matronly dark grey dress was covered by her own silver grey coat. Jeanne wore upon her lapel a broach given her by a rich man in her early youth and once the source of terrible quarrels between her and M. Baudelaire, but now, at least from M. Baudelaire's angle, the occasion of amused ironic glances. M. Baudelaire's only display of colour was a dark red handkerchief protruding from his suit coat pocket unseen beneath his overcoat and, fastened to his overcoat lapel by a simple gold pin, a single red rose.<br /><br />M. Baudelaire would have preferred a berth on a more modern boat, one with the rust removed and great perfectly white sides reaching into the air commandingly above the water but Jeanne would not be denied what she called her 'cozy oil bucket steamer' whose bleeding plates slumped in the water like the sides of a bruised animal. Then there was the matter of money, for the school they were to establish on arrival required money, even the money to be saved from the more humble passage.<br /><br />"I suppose," said M. Baudelaire as he placed his everyday scented handkerchief under his nose to escape the foul smell of goats being lifted off the pier in cages and dropped down into the ship's bowels, "the students will be the sons and daughters of dangerous criminals since you insist on establishing it near the slums where your cousins live. No doubt if one insists they write legibly and in their compositions exclude the tics of that monster Victor Hugo from their stylistic repertoire, the fathers and brothers will show up the next day and cut our throats. Oh well. We have lived far too long as it is and can hardly demand our exit be approved by aesthetic principles. Perhaps we can hire thugs to protect us. What do you think?"<br /><br />"Since the tuition is free the parents will complain of nothing," replied Jeanne. "A more likely problem might be parents rushing up to you in the streets, throwing themselves on their knees and covering your hands with kisses."<br /><br />"I could wear gloves I suppose."<br /><br />"If you wear gloves in that heat you won't have to worry about having your throat cut for you will die of heat stroke on the first day."<br /><br />&nbsp;There are the scents of Africa dealt with in poetry but the scents they experienced in coming into the harbour of the provincial town were mostly from the sewage laden oil glazed water which clung to the piers like a great miasma of foul syrup. The goats, making their return journey from the ship's underbelly had been freshened in their powerful odours by a week at sea with cages untended. Added to this was a great mass of animals on the pier waiting to be loaded, for the boat was to continue on down the coast to another town. One contingent was a travelling circus for there were cages of lions, tigers, hyenas, crocodiles, wired containers alive with snakes and, standing off to one side in the blessed shade of a giant tree, two mournful elephants leaning against one another, the sadness of the ages in their wise and weary eyes. Around these, in a sea which seemed endless, perhaps only terminating at the far end of Africa itself, that great and turbulent incubator of both humans and animals, were masses of farm animals - chickens, goats, cattle, ducks, strange, multicoloured exotic birds, even ostriches with &nbsp;long craning necks searching the crowd with irritable glares. M. Baudelaire wondered if it were possible for them to make their way through such an assembly or if the dark gods of the continent had demanded they all show up on that day to consume the few stringy Europeans which the boat was carrying into exile.<br /><br />Jeanne alleviated his fears by grasping him firmly by the hand and leading him down the gangplank. He held in his right hand a briefcase filled with his latest writing while his left was being tugged from its socket by the vigorous method Jeanne used to split the crowd to create an opening. She lowered one shoulder and barged. The combination of her physical vigour and the trailing presence of M. Baudelaire, obviously a Frenchman of the educated classes, opened up just enough room to make it through. Behind them came the young men Jeanne had engaged (at twice the going rate to prevent stealing or at least minimize it) to carry their luggage, fifteen altogether, loud young men who shouted at the crowd that refusal of a passageway would force them to down the baggage and begin beating people to create one.When they finally broke through the crush they came upon a line of ancient wagons two of which Jeanne hired to take them to their new home. There M. Baudelaire immediately retired into the inner spaces of the adobe house (which were deliciously cool compared to the oven baked streets) and had a nap.<br /><br />And what, you might ask, was M. Baudelaire, that great poet, critic, complainer, and aesthete, doing in a provincial town in Africa, the only thing to be said for it being it was the birthplace of his paramour, the incomparible Jeanne? Well, he had gone there with Jeanne of course, to teach children in a free school he was to bankroll out of the rag ends of his inheritance rescued from his early life of dissipation. His literary work was finished twenty years before he insisted to anyone who managed to break through the elaborate system of cut outs and covers he had assembled in the city of Paris to protect himself from mobs of celebrity seekers and lovers of art. He still wrote, or as he put it, scribbled, but he claimed this was the result of a lifelong nervous habit he was incapable of breaking. The school was in a old warehouse two blocks from the house, a building still smelling strongly of the spices once stored there. <br /><br />M. Baudelaire taught in the mornings and wrote in the afternoons. He had a class of fifteen children whom he taught a variety of subjects ranging from French History to English composition. The children ranged from nine to thirteen years of age, most African but three white, the sons of poor colonial Frenchmen. The children arrived at eight in the morning and were fed milk and bread with jam by Jeanne and three of her cousins, one of them a Catholic nun. There were three classes, M. Baudelaire's, the nun's and one taught by tubercular idealist from the island of Corsica. Classes were finished at one when Jeanne and her helpers fed the children soup and buns and sent them off home.<br /><br />The schedule, giving children the afternoon and evening off, was set up to attract students, for the poor needed older children to bring in a small income and could not have them attending school all day. That the children were fed breakfast and lunch also helped. The school, after it was operating for six months, had a complement of fifty- three children, the oldest thirteen, the youngest six. Jeanne hoped eventually, following the children as they aged, to raise the age of the oldest to sixteen or so. There were none in the school or the area for that matter, with the resources to attend university but some might manage a scholarship or entry into a free government technical school. Just the fact that they could read at the age of sixteen meant they could apply for a variety of jobs most &nbsp;could not apply for because they were illiterate. Jeanne was sensitive to these issues of employment while M. Baudelaire was rather dismissive of anything other than intellectual distinction mainly of the literary kind. In his class there were three gifted in languages and he gave them extra attention. But he did not neglect the others. In fact the student who stole his heart was a small boy from further south on the continent, a child named Jules, eleven years of age. Jules did not neglect his languages but he was most at home drawing pictures and spent all the time he could scribbling happily away on paper M. Baudelaire manage to scrounge from a local printer. He was the only child of a single mother who worked all day in a hospital laundry. After lunch he went home with Jeanne and M. Baudelaire, where he spent the afternoon in the inner courtyard drawing pictures on a table M. Baudelaire placed there for him. Once a week the two of them walked to the library of a religious school five miles across the city and took out books of images. Sometimes Jules drew whatever he wanted to draw, whatever came into his head. Other times he copied from the books of images or just sat looking at the images for hours at a time.<br /><br />Old poets grow tired of words and old painters weary of images. And it is not unusual, as in the case of Jules and M. Baudelaire, for the young to influence the old. M. Baudelaire, excepting for a brief foray into drawing and painting when a very young man, had stuck to words for many many years even though in the last ten years he found little joy in them. Now, influenced by the joy and concentration of this small boy working away in his courtyard, M. Baudelaire began to draw and then to experiment with colour. At first he worked in his own study on the other side of the house but after some time of this he brought an old table from storage and set it up not far from Jules, and the two of them, happy to have with them the warm presence of the other, yet fully concentrated on the work at hand, spent every afternoon from two until six filling paper and canvas and cut pieces of composition board with both copies from their books and their own work created in the inspiration of the moment. M. Baudelaire especially liked to draw and paint scenes from the nearby bazaar. Jules preferred the waterfront and on Saturdays he and M. Baudelaire drove the old school trap, pulled by its lethargic donkey, a moth eaten fellow with enormous ears, to the piers where they drew the ships and crowds and stevedores and made a thousand experiments attempting to capture the the delirious sense of movement and colour about them. Jules was greatly attracted by the water and made hundreds of colours studies trying to catch its queer and fleeting combination of filth and beauty. He found his secret ingredient to be tar. Begging a small amount from a sailor one day he found its pitch black, overlaid with other colours, created marvellous effects which made him dream at night of the harbour water. M. Baudelaire, fastidious himself about the tar, bowed to the boy's superior intuitions in these matters and bought a barrel of the stuff the workman wheeled into the courtyard on a dolly and stood up in a corner.<br /><br />There were what most people call folk painters in the town. As far as M. Baudelaire could make out the difference between folk painters and other painters was illusory, having, on the whole, to do with class and culture. Good painters were the talented ones who somehow kept themselves creatively stirred whatever people called them. He and Jules went off twice a month to visit some of these, mostly men but there were a few women among them. The studios were in the poor area around them for rents were cheap and these painters, selling their wares in the bazaars for very little money, had no choice but to live cheap. Most spoke French but some spoke only Arabic and in these cases Jules did the talking and translating into French for M. Baudelaire. M. Baudelaire, standing at the junction of the two cultures, one foot in each, although the French foot enormous, the Arabic one dependent on a now twelve year old boy, had, for the first time in his life, a business idea which ended in the construction of a small gallery in the front part of the house. M. Baudelaire advertised in the tourist hotels. He reasoned that there was nothing a middle class tourist, more and more of whom visited the town every year, wanted to take back with them than an authentic piece of Africa and what was better than a painting, lightweight, cheap, easily transportable? M. Baudelaire, and Jules sold some of their own, (M. Baudelaire under an Arabic nom de plume) but also paintings and sculptures by their friends, the 'folk' artists. Jeanne ran the money side &nbsp;and she and M. Baudelaire had a few heated arguments on how much could be syphoned off to support the school (Jeanne insisted on 20%, M. Baudelaire no more than 10). Jeanne won, of course, for she was the one who kept the accounts.<br />&nbsp; <br />M. Baudelaire found the hottest days to be insufferable. He always managed to teach his classes but sometimes in the afternoon he lay on his bed naked, panting like an old dog for an hour before he could summon the energy to rise.<br /><br />One day he had an appointment for mid afternoon two miles away from the house. It was useless to put the donkey in the drafts for the poor thing would bray piteously as if it were being roasted slowly over a fire like St. Lawrence and refuse to pull. Unlike many of the carters around M. Baudelaire did not have the heart to beat the creature and instead left him in the relative cool of his mud shed on the hottest of afternoons. Dressed in his black suit he feared he would collapse halfway to his destination yet felt, as a European, it was beneath his dignity to go out dressed in only a shirt and a pair of shorts. (the truth was he was more concerned about the skinniness of his arms and legs than his dignity) The gardener, a middle aged man about the same size as M. Baudelaire, suggested he wear his extra set of clothes, a shockingly white shift which dropped almost to the ankles, tied at the waist and covered by a burnoose, a hooded cloak.<br /><br />"We have been living here for thousands of years," said the gardener, "and this is what we wear."<br /><br />Particularly since he was going to visit the French Notary who looked after his financial affairs, a man of strict Huguenot &nbsp;uprightness who would rather die than be caught wearing the slightest deviation from conventional French colonial fashion, he decided to give it a go. The Notary was indeed shocked when M. Baudelaire strode into his office in Arab dress and he treated him with a the combination of care and distance his kind use in dealing with madmen. This amused M. Baudelaire to no end and, combined with the fact that his new costume was amazingly cool, making him feel as if he were covered by an umbrella and a slight cooling breeze blew so sweetly around his middle and legs, he decided to wear it all the time in the very hot season. Eventually he grew to like it and its winter additions so much he dressed like an Arab all year long.<br /><br />In the Spring of the fifth year of his arrival in Africa M. Baudelaire was sketching on the docks with Jules. It was mid afternoon on a coolish day, a series of cloud banks having blocked out the sun for most of the day. Jules was some distance away drawing sketch after sketch of a tramp steamer which had just tied up at the dock. M. Baudelaire was resting in the seat of the donkey trap drinking coffee purchased from a nearby stall when he saw a man he knew come down the steamer's gangplank.<br /><br />This man was a Parisian critic by the name of H. Bunot. He was some ten years younger than M. Baudelaire and a savage critic of his poetry up until the point, some thirty years ago, when it became obvious that M. Baudelaire was, by far, the most significant poet of his day. H. Bunot had then trimmed his sails to gather in the wind of the 'New Poetry' as he and his fellow critics called it, and had praised his work ever since. Unfortunately the poor man was as ignorant in his praise as he had been in his criticism. M. Baudelaire had met him many times in Paris, sometimes at the few official events he allowed himself to attend, sometimes in cafes M. Baudelaire frequented. In these establishments H. Bunot would often accost him and bore him with endless silly questions which M. Baudelaire answered as best he could for he knew the man had a large family to feed and words fresh from the horse's mouth were precious spices for H. Bunot's columns in the local newspapers. Ten years ago he had brought out a combination biography and literary criticism on the work and life of M. Baudelaire, which, despite lengthy interviews with the subject, was riddled with inaccuracies and contained &nbsp;an appreciation of his poetry so superficial and banal that an intelligent man would suspect it of being a satire. The life part bordered on hagiography even though M. Baudelaire had been quite frank with the man about the more unsavoury parts of his life and quite clear that he did not care one whit if he printed everything he told him. H. Bunot, of course, was writing for an audience who liked their poets to be on the saintly side and their defects explained away as the natural reaction to the sufferings attending a life devoted to art. The book mildly disgusted M. Baudelaire but he was in no way made angry or incensed by it for, when he thought about it, it was the only kind of book such a man could write, so why waste one's time expecting him to write another? When he finished reading the book (skimming it really, for the prose was so turgid, so cheapened by cliches that by the time one freed oneself from the clutches of one he was immediately jumped by three or four others, and actually reading the prose as if a man were speaking to him, as one does good work, would have caused M. Baudelaire to go stark raving mad or to have a heart attack or a stroke), he tossed it aside and never thought of it until this very moment when H. Bunot, raincoat over his left arm, walking stick in his right, two porters following behind, carrying his luggage, came walking down the gangplank. Well now, thought M. Baudelaire, as he watched H. Bunot climb into an open carriage and head off toward the hotel district.<br /><br />Three days later a note arrived at the house by courier, addressed to M. Baudelaire, of course, in the long, stretched out, flourishing characters he recognized from the old days in Paris. The messenger had been told to wait for an answer, and he was doing so in the kitchen where the cook poured him a cup of coffee.<br /><br />The message asked for an interview, the purpose being 'to bring the French public up to date on the current thinking and poetic practice of its greatest living poet.' M. Baudelaire, not wanting to give himself away by writing a reply in his own hand, surely recognizable even by the very obtuse H. Bunot, dictated an answer to Jules who wrote it down word for word. He then placed it in an envelope and handed it to the messenger to take back to his employer.<br /><br />H. Bunot was so anxious to receive the answer he was waiting in the hotel lobby when the messenger returned. &nbsp;He tore open the envelope, pulled out the single page of script it contained and read the following,<br /><br />Dear sir,<br /><br />Unfortunately the person to whom your message is addressed has been deceased for some time now. He, along with his paramour, a Jeanne Duvall, drowned when the boat they were travelling on in the interior was holed and sank with great loss of life. Neither the body of Jeanne Duval or that of M. Baudelaire was recovered but this is to be expected since it was the rainy season and the river, a seething torrent, carried all the bodies quickly out to sea. The house you sent your message to is owned by a M. Jules Jamalais, a merchant who never met M. Baudelaire and, other than the above and that the man's name was on the property deed before his, knows nothing at all about him.<br /><br />Yours,<br /><br />Jules Jamalais<br /><br />Further messages came back unopened. A private detective's report claimed there were no Europeans living in the house. H. Bunot's own spying expeditions revealed that the house seemed to be inhabited by servants only. Inquiries at the police station revealed nothing. There was no M. Baudelaire on their registry nor was there a Jeanne Duval. An advertisement in the newspaper produced not a single response. One and a half weeks after he had arrived, H Burnot sailed back to France aboard The Purposeful Hazard, the same old tub Jeanne and M. Baudelaire had sailed out of France on some five years before.<br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-40508186839353931382012-11-16T08:13:00.003-08:002012-11-21T10:29:32.898-08:00Painting Judge<br />Painting Judge<br /><br /><br />In his youth M. Van Gogh had a fiery complexion and &nbsp;bright copper hair. When he was a child, his mother, in an unprecedented moment of levity, described him to her husband as a cross between a summer sunset and a fire engine. Paterfamilias Van Gogh, who feared that his son’s colouring was a sign of bad things to come, was not amused. However, by the time M. Van Gogh reached sixty the fire had gone out. His hair and beard were snow white, his skin a muddy brown, although in some lights there was an undertint of orange. Age did not affect his eyes. They were the same ice blue as they had been when he was a baby.<br /><br />If M. Van Gogh had lived the average life span he would have died obscure and penniless. Outside of his intimate circle no one would have known his name and none but a few artists, poor and penniless themselves, would have seen and appreciated his paintings. But by some happenstance he was ‘discovered’ in his fifties and his paintings now sold for amounts which would once have financed he and all the many friends of his youth for a decade. When he reached eighty no one was more surprised than he. He thought for sure that his drinking (he stopped at the age of seventy-five), his mental illness (diagnosed by many psychiatrists as chronic and untreatable) and the years of grinding poverty which accompanied the making of his great paintings, would kill him before he was out of his fifties but they didn’t. He lived on and on until by the age of eighty-five he dwelt in a large house with servants and had so much money in the bank the manager came by three times a year to give him a personal briefing on his account.<br /><br />At the back of the house was a large yard, much of it filled with flowerbeds. The day after he bought the house he engaged a contractor to build a lean to studio off a blank spot on the back wall. The contractor had visions of a fine palace of a studio but M. Van Gogh stopped him in his tracks. He wanted no fine palaces. He didn’t mind them if they belonged to someone else and he was on a brief visit, but he did not want to own or build one himself. He wanted only the most humble of materials. He wanted a potbellied stove burning both wood and coal. He wanted modest windows with storms for the winter, of course, but he wanted them smallish so that a man could walk up to them and look out with satisfaction yet not so commanding they demanded he look out. When the contractor gave him the price he was astonished. He made a joke about Louis XIV and the extravagance of his royal court but the contractor was not amused. When M. Van Gogh asked around about the price he was told it was reasonable and he had the man go ahead.<br /><br />As soon as the studio was built (quickly for the building market was depressed and the contractor had his pick of workmen), he spent most of his waking hours there. Summers he spent much of the days outside on a small patio. He joked with his bank manager - a surprisingly humorous man for one following such a profession - usually they were as dour as his dear old father - &nbsp;that the house was for the servants and except for sleeping and eating he never went into it. He allowed the oldest maid, a second cousin who came to live with him some years before, being destitute and homeless, to clean the studio once a month. That was on the day he climbed into the motorcar for his trip to the sea some ten miles away.<br /><br />If it was summer he sat on the beach all day, had supper at the hotel and came home. During the winter he walked, one hand on the chauffeur’s elbow, the other on his cane. The chauffeur carried with him a load of blankets and when they reached a certain bench he wrapped his employer in a wool cocoon and M. Van Gogh sat for some hours looking out to sea. It always occurred to him on these occasions that he could have saved himself all the trials and tribulations of being an artist by having become a sailor. He thought of sailors as artists who destained the vulgar claptrap of paint and canvas for the much purer art of simply seeing. Although he knew this to be untrue, in fact to be the worst kind of sentimental nonsense, still, every time he sat on his bench the thought went through his head and for a brief moment he enjoyed it as a child would enjoy the intense taste of his favourite candy.<br /><br />Sometimes Denise, the second cousin, was still in the studio when he came back. This annoyed M. Van Gogh, for it meant he had to sit patiently listening to his relative’s complaints. Her complaints were complex, involved and legion. So as to kill two birds with one stone he ordered tea brought out on a tray and sat munching cookies while Denise walked the winding road of her illnesses and petty disputes with the other servants. Her monologues were much the same every month and M. Van Gogh sometimes wondered if she were not becoming senile. Other than an occasional hmmm and nodding his head, he made no comment. He had learned years before that interruptions were considered rude and comments were not appreciated. If Denise was still full steam ahead after an hour he unobtrusively removed a pre-measured packet of laudanum from an inside pocket and spilt the contents into his tea. He had learned exactly when to do this so that just as Denise’s voice became like a dentist drill cutting its way through a nerve, the effects of the drug cut in and saved him from excruciating misery. Denise was a good twenty years younger than himself and capable of talking well into the night but after two hours at the most, he pleaded his age and rang for the man servant who helped him to his bedroom.<br /><br />To be aged and famous, unless one is an egoist, is a burden. Curators and sycophants in the employ of the men who will profit from an increase in the value of your work, spread about them a misty fog of hagiography. Supposedly at the centre of this misty fog is an electrical Prometheus, fire crackling the air around a nimbus of his creative tensions, waiting patiently for the chosen few who will be given the benefit of his steely gaze or even the sacrament of his god like touch. In truth, of course, there is an old man bundled against the chills of old age, in a chair in the corner. At ninety M. Van Gogh succeeded in putting an end to this nonsense by hiring two gardeners who came running at the sounding of a buzzer in their shed and garden. These two men, polite church goers but inexorable in the defence of M. Van Gogh’s privacy, showed all visitors who brushed past the butler to the door and out into the street. Sometimes, in the case of the truly zealous and pressing, they threw them down the front steps and shouted unchurch-like phrases after, for they had found from experience that physical fear was the best guard against repeat performances. Six months of this and the word got round so that now only the occasional unwelcome visitor showed up at the door. Most were given the gardener treatment but on the rare odd day M. Van Gogh would allow them to be ushered into his presence as a kind of tribute to the bad old days. They were mostly art students, feverish and consumed with ecstatic visions. M. Van Gogh spoke with them briefly about the prices of canvas, tubes of paint, brushes, etcetera, gave them a crisp one hundred dollar bill and sent them on their way.<br /><br />Fame and reputation also brought many invitations, some social which he refused and some professional, which he mostly refused. In his seventies and eighties he had been foolishly moved by the arguments of Highly Responsible persons that a great painter in his dotage had debts to pay to what they called the ‘Great Tradition’. He sat on committees. He went to high profile openings of public expositions. He attended the Royal Family’s Arts Night where he was given a place beside the Prince who during the meal told him many off colour jokes, some mildly amusing but most plain silly. He also acted as the painting judge for this annual event, the successful painting being unveiled after the dinner by the Prince who took advantage of the occasion to tell a few more of his smutty jokes and make a few asides (referred to by his friends as the Royal Person’s zingers) in the same spirit of scatological snickering. All this reminded M. Van Gogh of a relative of the Prince from two centuries before who was famous for caressing the bottoms of duchesses in public and who often, during a reception, suddenly plunged his face into the cleavage of a well endowed young woman. One of the disadvantages of being Royal is that everyone knows your business and the business of your ancestors for even their most banal habits are written up in history books. If you are common, two generations succeeds in wiping the slate clean and the dead can go to their final rest in the fields of oblivion.<br /><br />At ninety, along with hiring his two gardeners, M. Van Gogh dropped all these ‘Great Tradition’ duties excepting one, the Royal’s Arts Night. The Highly Responsible Persons were in high dudgeon for some months but he paid them no attention. They were, after all, the type of people whose artistic activity consists of eating stale sandwiches, gossiping and discussing fashionable topics under the delusion that their opinions, which they received from the newspapers and sifted with insect –like delicacy until they found a happy mix of the bland and the popular, were of great import. He did not cast all these people from his door for he liked some of them a great deal and set three nights a year to have them for dinner where everyone, including himself, for he was one of them, at least part time, if he was honest with himself, could have a jolly gabfest. But he turned aside all their blandishments about his withdrawal as the talk of the devil. He had a few paintings to finish before he died and the younger ones would have to take his place on the committees.<br /><br />The Royal Arts Night coming up was special. The Prince was celebrating his thirtieth year hosting the event and, as well, M. Van Gogh celebrated his one hundredth birthday two days before. The media was agog with delight over such a momentous occasion filled with celebrity and significance. M. Van Gogh heard about the media frenzy from friends, most particularly from the young woman student who he paid to give him a weekly summary of arts and political news. He had never read newspapers for he found them hard going. After an hour he felt like a child who had just eaten three cones of cotton candy – regretful and nauseous. M. Legrand, the young woman, however, gave him brief summaries which he could ask her to expand if he so chose. Her summations were masterful and done up with a sly irony unusual in such a young person. They were also enjoyable to listen to for M. Legrand was beautiful and her voice a combination of morning birds singing and grave delicate rhythms of the sea. Although congress with a woman was a matter of memory for him now, he still loved to listen to their melodious voices and even to some of the non melodious voices of the middle aged women who had once been his lovers.<br /><br />This connection with M. Legrand and the coming Royal Arts Night had recently become somewhat of a delicate matter to him. M. Legrand was a student, an impoverished one, but as well as being a student in the studio of X, an old enemy of M. Van Gogh (from X’s side for M. Van Gogh had never been able to see the use of cultivating enemies), she was an accomplished painter with her own individual style which M. Van Gogh thought showed considerable promise. She had entered a painting in the Royal competition where the winning entry would be unveiled by the potty mouthed Prince on that special night. Her painting was superb, the kind of painting done by the highly talented early in their career which art critics discount because of the painter's youth but in truth are fully mature works granted by a combination of the muse and the energies of youth. M. Van Gogh was the judge of the competition, of course. But if he chose M. Legrand’s entry there would be many who would accuse him of furthering a protégé’s career at the cost of true judgment, or even a mistress’s career, for there were many who claimed the meetings between he and M. Legrand, an hour every week in the library, were, as well as being media summaries, sexual in nature. Of course they were but not in the way these people meant.<br /><br />M. Legrand herself was the soul of discretion. She never mentioned her entry and indeed, in all of their meetings, some one hundred or so, she had never mentioned the fact that she was a painter. M. Van Gogh disliked talking of painting. He thought it better to look at paintings rather than talk about them. But he paid her so handsomely that it was obvious that, as well as paying her for her services, he was subsidizing her studies. Not that they spoke of this. Every week in the envelope given her by the butler as she left the house there was a generous amount above the agreed upon payment.<br /><br />That year there were four hundred and fifty-five entries. The Prince’s agents placed them on easels and spread them around the grand hall for M. Van Gogh to look at. And look he did for he was the most conscientious of judges. He thought it his sacred duty to gaze at each one with the intense but kindly eye the painters themselves might turn upon it in an unguarded moment of self appreciation. This took him a month, visiting the grand hall every day, for at one hundred years of age M. Van Gogh, although surprisingly vigorous both physically and intellectually, no longer had the energy of early old age. He had two hours in the hall at his best, viewing and taking notes and then he went home. With four days left, after reviewing his notes, he chose twenty paintings which he then spent these last days looking at over and over again. M. Legrand’s was one of these paintings.<br /><br />The day before the Gala, after listening to M. Legrand’s media summary without interrupting (he was tired and longed for his afternoon nap) he asked her,<br /><br />“Are you going to the Art’s Night?”<br /><br />“Well, I have received an invitation,” said M. Legrand, “but no.”<br /><br />“And why not?”<br /><br />“Clothes,” replied M. Legrand.<br /><br />M. Van Gogh felt suddenly ashamed. How could he have missed such an obvious thing? He, a man who had spent forty years wearing rags and patches? He thought of apologizing but then thought better of it. Instead he rose, excused himself for a moment and left the room. He came back a few moments later and said,<br /><br />“That will be all for today, M. Legrand. Thank you and I will see you tomorrow evening.”<br /><br />M. Legrand left the room with her usual liquid grace and M. Van Gogh took the elevator upstairs to his bedroom to have his nap. When M. Legrand arrived at the room she rented near X’s studio she found the envelope contained far more than usual. She went out right away to a second hand shop and bought herself the necessities. The dress had to be altered but this for her was a pleasure – she loved working with needle and thread as much as she loved painting.<br /><br />The Prince, of course, was delighted that the winner of that year’s prize was a beautiful young woman. Usually the winners were grizzled old veterans of the trenches of art, their eyes filled with a strange combination of obsequiousness and paranoid aggression. How much more pleasant to gaze upon this young woman in full bloom, her eyes filled with a smiling clarity, dressed in a stunning classical gown perhaps given her by an older lover, a man of wealth and influence not unlike the Prince himself. So impressed was he that he did not make his usual jokes, perhaps fearing that they would put him in a bad light before this young woman of refined sensibilities. His sycophants were disappointed that they were given no ‘zingers’ to pass around at the after event parties but they solved this problem by recycling some from years before.<br /><br />A week later when M. Legrand finished her summary, M. Van Gogh asked,<br /><br />“Has he sent you a message?”<br /><br />“Yes,” she replied.<br /><br />“I thought he would,” said M. Van Gogh. “He’s not a man to hesitate or delay. Have you decided?”<br /><br />“No. I vacillate. I have a lover, a painter my own age. But he is as penniless as I.”<br /><br />“I can look after this for you if you like. I don’t mean the Prince. You will deal with him as you like. I mean the money. Don’t answer in words. I know it is painful. If you are willing then simply nod.”<br /><br />M. Legrand hesitated for a few seconds and then nodded.<br /><br />“Fine, then,” said M. Van Gogh. “But there is one condition. The money will be deposited in your account. Leave the number with Jacob. The condition is that you are not to tell your lover you have capital. Tell him I give you a monthly income out of respect for your talent. Surely he will not look upon a hundred year old man as competition. I ask this because in a long life I have seen many women besotted by men who spent their money. You need it for something more long lasting than individual human beings – your painting. People change their feelings and they die but for as long as you can pick up a brush you have the painting. When I die you will be released from your promise, a release obviously not far in the future.”<br /><br />M. Legrand looked at him for a long time but said nothing.<br /><br />“You agree, then?” asked M. Van Gogh.<br /><br />M.Legrand nodded. And so it was done.<br /><br /><br />One year later, at the Royal Arts Night, M. Van Gogh was approached by the Prince after &nbsp;dinner. They stood in a small alcove off from the main hall, the Prince’s escort of dear ole pals attending at a distance, in respect, perhaps, for such an historic and august meeting between the embodied traditions of art and power.<br /><br />“That young woman who won the prize last year,” said the Prince, “I forget her name…”<br /><br />“M. Legrand, your Excellency,” said M. Van Gogh.<br /><br />“Yes, M. Legrand. She seems quite a queer bird. I sent her a note and she didn’t reply.”<br /><br />“Ahh,” said M. Van Gogh.<br /><br />“I thought perhaps the first note had gone astray so I sent another. Three others in fact but still no reply.”<br /><br />“Perhaps, your Excellency, you will allow my vast age to excuse my boldness, but what was in the notes you sent her?”<br /><br />“Well….,” replied the Prince, “I asked her for a private meeting, a dinner tete a tete.”<br /><br />“She’s very religious your Excellency and has a fiancé. So you can see why it would be impossible for her to reply. If you really want to see her I would suggest you invite her to a social occasion along with her fiancé. If you did that I’m sure you would get a reply.”<br /><br />“Religious, eh? Well, we could all use a little more of that couldn’t we? Tempest Fugit and all.”<br /><br />“No doubt your Excellency.”<br /><br /><br />But the Prince didn’t send another note. Other than the gala he never invited artists to social occasions. They were like glaciers, exuding chilly disapproval and looking down their noses at those not kissed by the holy god of art. Too bad that such a beauty was lost to him but there are plenty of others who were not, weren't there? Lots of other fish in the sea and all that.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br />&nbsp; <br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-14765085855817084252012-11-11T23:12:00.000-08:002012-11-11T23:12:28.970-08:00Barry<br />Barry<br /><br /><br />No one thought Barry Erkin would ever become a policeman. He lacked the manichaean point of view, and, even as a child, had no interest in projecting his ideas on others. He was a ‘laissez faire’ sort of person, one who left others alone and in turn wanted to be left alone himself. “Barry will be a accountant,” everyone said, “or a fireman.” But when he reached the age of eighteen he applied for the Police Academy and was admitted.<br /><br />Erkin papa was a plumber but he and his wife had so many children, after plumbing all day, he worked evenings at the pig works slaughtering pigs. As a result he smelt like a dead, slightly rotting pig and no amount of scrubbing in the big tub could made him smell otherwise. Even dousing himself with cheap deodorants merely made him smell like a dead pig sprinkled with perfume. As one can imagine from his work schedule, which in those days included Saturday, he hardly knew his children. When he rose in the morning they were asleep and when he came home at night they were asleep. When he came down into the kitchen on Sunday mornings and found it filled with children, all of whom became suddenly silent when their father walked into the room, he was surprised. For the last six days he had forgotten they existed. The children saw their father as an unpredictable and violent man, which was true. The kitchen emptied out and he sat down in glorious solitude at the table while his wife served him a huge, working man breakfast.<br /><br />Barry was the second last of the boys. All told there were six boys and seven girls, the boys rough and ready with great, meaty paws like their father and the girls delicate faced but with strong, sturdy bodies able to defend themselves so fiercely even the bigger boys left them alone. Five of the girls became famous neighbourhood beauties. Two, scorning such a prize, dressed in a deliberately dowdy way all through childhood and early womanhood. One became a doctor and the other a political activist.<br /><br />During his school years Barry was known as ‘the quiet Erkin’, which is understandable given that the rest were so noisy and boisterous. He liked sports but preferred games like swimming and track where individual skills were the center point and there was a minimum of group togetherness. Paradoxically, of all the Erkin boys, he grew to be the largest and most powerful and yet the one least interested in scrapping and bickering. He would defend himself, however. When he was in grade school he was expelled for a month for breaking a bully's nose. This made those who thrived on tormenting shy, seemingly incapable boys, leave him alone.<br /><br />Erkin papa thought nothing of giving his boys a backhand slap when they were almost grown and when they were small he punished them by beating them with his belt, a monstrous thing three inches wide. But he treated Barry differently. There was something about the way the boy looked at him that made him hesitate. Since Barry was an obedient boy the question of correction seldom arose but once, when Barry was nine, his father gave him the strap treatment. During his beating the boy never uttered the slightest sound which so infuriated his father that he beat him all the more, so much so that his wife tackled her own husband in the boy’s defence. When his father unhanded him to fend off his wife, Barry ran out of the house and did not come back for three days. When he did come back Mrs. Erkin was beside herself with joy but while she was weeping and fondling and kissing him, Barry was staring at his father with undisguised hatred. After that, for the occasional punishment required, the old man gave Barry extra chores or made him stay in the yard for a day.<br /><br />The Police Academy teachers thought highly of Barry. He was intelligent, quick, physically capable, polite and deferential. He graduated at the top of his class. As was usual he spent three years as a regular constable stationed in the city, learning the ropes. In his fourth year he was sent back to the Academy to do the Detective course and when this was finished appointed an assistant Detective under an older man, soon to retire. This was a great honour &nbsp;because the older Detective was a legend and the scuttlebutt was that Barry had been hand picked to succeed him.<br /><br />Barry and the old man, Frederich Delany, got along fine. Neither liked small talk. Neither drank. Neither went to church. Both loved to go on long walks and sit quietly in sidewalk cafes drinking coffee. Both liked to play chess and read complicated scientific books. One might be tempted to say they were like father and son but this would be inaccurate for Frederick, right from the beginning, accepted Barry as an equal. If he had anything to teach the younger man he did it in a bluff, factual way which seemed to assume it was a mere oversight of the cosmic order that Barry did not already know it. He put on no airs. His main method of teaching was giving Barry old dossiers to read and then discussing them with him while they went through the old section of the city for a long walk. In other words he walked him through past experience, the only way to teach anyone anything.<br /><br />Detective work, unlike the way it is depicted in most fiction, is often boring. Writing endless reports and long interviews going nowhere compose the bulk of a Detective’s day. But it has its perks. Free meals at restaurants where the credentials of the kitchen staff are best left unexamined is one. During lull periods, wandering about the city enjoying oneself while claiming to be working is another.<br /><br />&nbsp;A typical Detective murder case goes like this. A call comes to the station. The Detective and partner are sent to an address. The technicians are already there, gathering their harvest of evidence, so the partners sit on the step outside until they are finished. Then, in they go to look at the body, inert of course, and very dead. Dead bodies don’t bother them for they have already seen many dozens. They do not burden themselves with modern notions that they are somehow responsible, ‘if only they had’ or ‘if only society was somehow differently structured’ and all that. That’s for the hand wringers and they are not hand wringers. After looking about for a bit they instruct the uniforms to find the husband, the lover, the cuckold, the drinking partner or whatever. Often they don’t have to do this for they are already present, weeping and confessing. Sometimes the uniforms find them at the nearest bar or on a train leaving town or holed up in a hotel three blocks away. They may offer a little resistance but mostly, once they are in the interview room, they spill the beans. Just as they could not resist the impulse to kill, they cannot resist the impulse to unburden themselves. It’s all very sad and sometimes the Detectives empathize but mostly they remain very cool and simply observe. After this has been repeated many times they no longer judge. They may even begin to wonder if all this is not somehow preordained, if some vast chemical process over which individual human beings have no control, has not delivered them here, cop on one side of the desk writing, the murderer on the other side, emotionally distraught, confessing, pleading for understanding, for self justification.<br /><br />In the first five years of being a Detective, Barry, accompanying Frederick, went to many of these cases. They comprised perhaps eighty or ninety percent of the murder roster. But there was another kind of murder comprising maybe five to ten percent. In these cases the partners would arrive at a taped off alley where a corpse, covered with a white sheet, lay on the bare ground. When the techs were finished they pulled back the sheet and saw the sign – one shot through the head. The victims were sometimes from the underworld, sometimes not. They were sometimes well dressed, with money in their pocket, sometimes not. But they were all shot through the head, usually from the back, by a small caliber pistol, most often a twenty-two. Most were male but there was the occasional female.<br /><br />The usual procedures were followed. People who lived and worked round about, and intimates of the victim, were questioned but nothing came of these enquiries. Sometimes a person living nearby would say he heard a car backfire at a certain time the previous night. But, even if connected to the shooting, this information was useless. It merely confirmed that someone pulled the trigger and they already knew that. The timing supplied by the witness was usually vague. It could have been ten o’clock; it could have been twelve thirty. Very, very occasionally a witness heard something and then saw a figure walk off down the street. But the description of this figure could have fit perhaps one half of the city’s population, so it too was useless. He was wearing a baggy coat or perhaps it was a sailor’s jacket. He was young but then again he may have been middle aged. He was bulky and strong but perhaps it was the coat made him look that way. As useless as they were, all of these things were written down by uniforms and entered into the dossier. <br /><br />Ballistic were done on the bullet but they all knew the pistol was now in the river. Tech evidence involving shoe prints, etc, was examined carefully but they all knew the shoes and clothing were also in the river or ashes in a wood stove somewhere outside of town. Of the several hundreds of these kind of murders Frederick had investigating in his career, only two were ‘solved’, each by the higher ups ordering it be pinned on a certain individual who, in reality, had nothing whatsoever to do with it, which means, of course, that none of them were solved.<br /><br />“Who does them then?” Barry asked one day when they were waiting at a counter for a plate of Chinese food.<br /><br />“Gangsters settling scores. The odd private citizen hiring a professional killer and somebody else. I suspect that more than half are done by the somebody else.”<br /><br />“And who is that,” asked Barry.<br /><br />Frederick looked at him for a long time and then smiled. He didn’t speak. Instead he nodded his head in a northeast direction, one quick nod with the eyes following it intensely. Three blocks away to the northeast was the headquarters of the Secret Police. &nbsp;<br /><br />Because of the nod and Frederick’s intensity, Barry asked no more questions. Everyone knew it was unwise to speak of ‘them’ anywhere in public. The restaurant was crowded with workers on their lunch hour. They ate their chop suey in silence and then left to go back to the station.<br /><br />Three days later they were walking along the banks of the river headed for an interview with the wife of a &nbsp;merchant. The merchant had disappeared and since he was very prominent, the Chief had sent Frederick out to interview his wife.<br /><br />“So you think it’s the Secret Police who shoots all those people?” Barry asked.<br /><br />“I don’t think,” said Frederick. “I know.”<br /><br />“But I thought they took them to the station and shot them,” said Barry.<br /><br />“Some,” said Frederich. “The ones they want people to know they shot. The ones they don’t they do it like the gangsters do so everyone thinks it’s the gangsters.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br />After Barry had been with him six years Frederich was getting ready to retire. He had already served thirty years, five more than was required for full pension. Recently he and his wife bought a few acres just outside of town. They planned on keeping pigs and chickens and growing a big garden. Barry went out to see it with him one slow afternoon. Flat prairie land with a house just off the dirt road and a rough poplar fence around it. The house needed work and Frederich was going to auctions, looking for a tractor. It was late spring and they sat for an hour in the backyard drinking tea while Frederich told him his plans for the place – a chicken house, a pig barn, but first a screened gazebo because the summer bugs were outrageous.<br /><br />Three weeks before he was to retire Frederich suddenly disappeared on a day Barry was at a course at the Academy. No one got in touch with him so he didn’t hear about it until he came in the next morning. Taking a younger detective with him he went off on a long walk through the old town asking everyone who knew Frederich - the shopkeepers, the waitresses, etc - &nbsp;if they had seen him. No one had. The last anyone at the station saw him was the previous morning at ten o’clock. He said he was going for a walk to talk to someone and he left through the front door. When they searched his desk for an appointment note, a phone number, they came up with nothing. Frederick wasn’t good about writing things down. He kept a lot of things in his head.<br /><br />They found him the next day on the riverbank shot through the head with a twenty-two. No sign of struggle, so the shooter was probably walking with him and suddenly pulled out the pistol and fired. It was a deserted part of the bank where people seldom walked. He was lying a little off the main path, face down. It was late in a very hot, rainless summer and the earth was as hard as concrete, so the Techs got nothing from the ground and nothing from Frederich’s clothing or body. Probably the shooter met him on the path and they went walking. The man never touched him.<br /><br />“Who?” Barry asked his Chief Inspector.<br /><br />The Chief Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Frederich was a secretive man. Who knows what he had going on. You would know better than anyone. You spent the last six years with him.”<br /><br />Barry was made the Investigating officer. There is a classic set up for such an operation and he set it up but he had little faith it would find anything. Once things were organized he let the cherub cheeked younger detective run it and report to him. &nbsp;If he were to find an answer it would come from unorthodox methods.<br /><br />First the gangsters. He made a few phone calls and met with a middle ranked man in a coffee shop where he often had lunch with Frederich. The man told him the organization had no problems with Frederich. He had never been on the payroll but at the same time he had stayed away from certain sensitive cases and the organization had no reason to kill him. “If he was a problem,” said the man, “we would have killed him long ago. Why wait until he was almost retired?” Barry felt the man was telling the truth. The uniforms, who went through Frederich’s papers both at the station and his apartment, found absolutely zilch connecting him to gangsters. This was like Frederich thought Barry. He would be circumspect and cautious but keep himself clean.<br /><br />So who was he meeting on the riverbank by himself? A snitch? But why would a snitch kill him? There was no benefit to a snitch killing his connection. Did someone kill him for personal reasons? Unlikely Barry thought. Frederick was a smooth operator who genuinely got along with just about everyone. That someone would kill him out of personal pique was very, very unlikely.<br /><br />So it came around to ‘them’, didn’t it? But that didn’t make sense either. Why would they want to kill Frederich, especially when he would soon retire? Approaching ‘them’, well that was a tricky matter. You didn’t phone them up and ask if they had killed your partner and if so why? The Secret Police were like a hard shelled turtle except the shell extended all the way round. They would talk to you all day, if you let them, squirreling for incidental details about cases and operations but they gave nothing in return. They were like a brick wall, a stainless steel door. They were like priests sworn to secrecy.<br /><br />But Barry knew a few things. He had been taking computer night courses at the Academy for four years. Frederich called him a computer geek and he had to admit it was true. Last year an older man from the Secret Service had been in one of his courses. He was typical Secret Service type, hard and cautious, tight lipped, but Barry talked to him a few times in the break between sessions. The Service had gone big on computers. They took in the best graduates from the tech schools. The older man wasn’t looking to become a technical expert. There were lots of bright young recruits for that. What he wanted was a general knowledge detailed enough so that he could supervise intelligently. The man, like everyone else in the class, carried a laptop with him. One day while passing his desk Barry noticed the man was on a strange looking site, one tingeing the screen a faint blue colour. Barry memorized the ULR and the user name, George Simil, the name of his classmate. He thought it strange that the man used his real name, or at least the name he gave out in the class as his. He thought a Secret Service Officer would use a codename. <br /><br />An old neighbourhood pal knew how to find passwords but Barry wouldn’t let him do it on their own computers. Far too dangerous. Like hiding on the riverbank beside a roaring fire. He bought a laptop on the black market. The user name and password belonged to an old man who died a month before in a pensioner’s home.<br /><br />Barry wouldn’t let his friend try the site. Instead he had him walk him through the steps to find the password. Then he took the laptop to a café with wi fi. It took him two hours of trying but he finally got the password. Then he left the café because he was afraid being on the site might be tracked and there might be a finder truck.<br /><br />The next night he went to another café. Blue screen. Enter password. Service Interface Files. Frederick P. Delany. The file popped up but to enter you needed Special Sections clearance.<br /><br />He explained to his friend who told him, “No problem.”<br /><br />But Barry thought there was. “Do you think finding the password left a track?” he asked his friend.<br /><br />“Yes, but whether there is anyone looking for tracks is the real question,” answered his friend.<br /><br />“But if there was then they would find a computer owned by a dead man, sold on the black market so no one knows where it is, right?<br /><br />“Depends. Central could track its physical location when it’s online but someone would have to go there and catch whoever had it in their possession.”<br /><br />“What’s the best way to do it then?” asked Barry.<br /><br />“Get a black market stick and use it outside town. That makes it much much more difficult to track and if you do, to get there,” said his friend.<br /><br />So that’s what they did. It took Barry’s friend only ten minutes to get Special Sections Clearance. “These guys are still in kindergarten,” he said.<br /><br />But Barry wouldn’t let him go into the file. He did that himself three days later in a police car late in the afternoon twenty miles outside town, parked on the riverbank. Blue screen. Frederich P. Delany. Files of Operations Officer. Latest. August 12th, Tuesday, the day of Frederich’s death. The page came up slowly revealing a blank rectangle of blue excepting in the center of the page where there was a capital E, a bracket, the numbers 4930, unbracket. Barry stared at this for a full minute. If this meant what he thought it meant he found it hard to believe they would put it in a file but then again why not? They were basically untouchable and if, as Frederich had said, this was a normal every day thing for them, why not? Not wanting to stay on any longer, he exited and went back to the station and home.<br /><br />He asked his friend the next morning, “When would be the best time to go on and stay on for a while?” ”In the morning,” said his friend with no hesitation.<br /><br />“Why?” asked Barry.<br /><br />“Because it’s so busy. The busier it is the less noticeable an aberration. Although I wonder if it would come up as an aberration on their system. It didn’t seem to have any pick ups for this sort of thing when I was on there.”<br /><br />Barry arranged his schedule so he had a car in the mornings and drove out of town on a different road each day. He spent two hours reading files and then went back to town.<br /><br />Frederich was an informant. The files were filled with his reports on anything from office politics to the drinking habits of his supervisors. There was even a report on Barry, his political opinions (none), affiliations (none), personality, daily habits. There were pages and pages of this kind of stuff, penny ante, mundane and boring. That Frederich was spying for the Secret Service shocked him but the fact that Frederich had spent many hours, thousands perhaps, writing up these inane, banal reports shocked him even more. The files went back thirty years so he was a snitch right from the beginning. Why? Barry wondered. Maybe he was blackmailed. Or maybe in those days it was expected as a normal, every day part of the job. Maybe everyone did it.<br /><br />On the fourth day of reading Barry opened a file having to do with the arrest of a prostitute. The older files were handwritten, a paper original scanned into the file but the newer were typewritten. This one was typed. Barry recognized the name of the prostitute. She was the Great Leader’s present mistress and had been so for three years, the longest reign for any of his women. The date on the file was four years ago, so one year before she became the big boss’s mistress. Frederich had arrested her for assaulting a man in a bar. The woman, who must have had considerable strength, had hit the man over the head with a heavy barstool and fractured his skull. He died on the spot. She was jailed and brought to trial. Frederich was the officer supplying evidence and he did an excellent job, as usual. The woman was given ten years hard labor, remitted a short time later to six months minimum security detention. The file was essentially the police report on the incident with comments by Frederick. The comments were scathing. He called the woman a dangerous psychotic, a sociopath. It was his opinion that the state should lock her up and throw away the key.<br /><br />“So,” Barry said aloud to the empty car, “So.”<br /><br /><br />“If you let me go up on the file I can probably find you the shooter.” Barry’s friend said when he explained what he found.<br /><br />They were walking through the old district towards a café to have lunch. Barry was paying which was usual practice. Today he owed his friend a debt but on many other days his friend was simply broke. He spent all his money on computers and programs.<br /><br />“Why?” asked Barry. “The actual person who pulled the trigger was a professional. ‘Kill this person on Tuesday,’ they said and he did it. He was the means but the real killer was much higher up, right? The real killer was HIM at the instigation of his mistress. What surprises me is that the file is still there on the site. When I checked in police files it was gone. In that year’s arrest lists, nothing, no such name. No Prosecutor’s files under that name. No witness reports. No Supervising Officer reports, nothing, as if, as far as the police are concerned, the woman did not exist; there was no crime, no killing. The whole thing has evaporated. Even the autopsy report on the victim has disappeared.”<br /><br />“I suppose they don’t have to worry too much,” his friend said. “I mean, who in their right mind would try hacking their site and even if they did what would they do with the information? What use is it to anyone?”<br /><br />“Well, to me it answered a question which would have bothered me all my life. Not that the answer is a satisfying one, mind you, but at least it’s an answer. As for anyone else, you are right. What would one do, shout it from a street corner until they came to blow your brains out? Write it on bathroom walls until they catch you and beat you to death? Although it is the truth, it is a truth totally useless to anyone, excepting to the big boss and his mistress who gain something from its eradication. To them its value is in its negation.”<br /><br />The route to the café led over a bridge across the river. When they were in the center of the bridge Barry lifted the laptop strap from &nbsp;his shoulder and, without checking his stride in the least, tossed it over the rail. A few seconds later they heard the splash. His friend said nothing. It was the natural conclusion to the whole affair, wasn’t it? A dead man’s laptop, a dead cop, a dead man in a bar. It was like putting a period at the end of a very long sentence. You do it and then it’s over and time to start another. &nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-38636159104842331242012-10-27T18:20:00.003-07:002012-10-27T18:20:22.895-07:00Miss Grey<br /><br />Miss Grey<br /><br /><br />If you turn right at Scotia off Allison you will see the house at the end of the street, a dead end with a turn around large enough for cars but the bane of garbage truck drivers and movers driving long vans. Miss Grey lived in that house for many years. She was born there in the days when people were born in houses, not hospitals and died there, full of years as they say, not long after the beginning of the supposedly last of the wars, at least according to the Committee. Of course an error had been made and later it became clear there were a few more wars necessary to clear the way for ‘peace and constantly joyous living.’ Not that Miss Grey ever paid much attention to wars. To her they were rumours from a far away land and she paid as much attention to them as she paid to baseball scores or young men who race bicycles up and down mountainsides.<br /><br />Miss Grey’s father was a gangster but a gentlemanly one. During the later part of his career he never shot anyone personally although several of his associates did. He wore tailored suits, sported a cane when he took his morning constitutional and had a church pew three rows behind the most socially prominent family in the neighbourhood. This family was more respectable than Miss Grey’s for it was their great grandfather who had been the gangster and by the time the present family representatives appeared on the scene the money had been washed of the blood he had spilt to accumulate it. Not that Miss Grey’s father went to church much. He showed up once a month and on feast days. Otherwise he spent Sunday mornings playing gin rummy with cronies from the old neighbourhood.<br /><br />When she was a child Miss Grey was not bothered by the way her father made his money. Those who said nasty things about him she ignored. They were jealous, envious souls, the kind who made a grab for self respect by pulling their superiors down into the muck with them. Miss Grey’s mother, Ophelia was her name for God’s sake, took the ambiguity of their social position (money but gangster money) much more to heart than did Miss Grey. To be frank her mother was paranoid. Her talk, after arriving home from a social occasion, was almost exclusively of ‘certain looks’ she received or ‘whisperings’ or ‘hasty avoidances’ covered up by the swirl of the crowded room. She always came home with a terrible headache which she treated by complaining of the slights she had received while drinking two ounces of scotch from one glass alternating with the two ounces of brandy from another. Usually it was Miss Grey who listened to her. Her father dropped his wife at the door and continued on to the club where he drank rainwater and strawberry syrup. Miss Grey was the only child, so who else would listen?<br /><br />When Miss Grey became a young woman Ophelia began including her husband in her complaints. She had been fooled into marrying him she told Miss Grey by his imitating what she called a fashionable boulevardier, that is a handsome, dashing, moneyed man about town when in truth he was ‘one of them’, that is a gangster. He picked her up for dates in a brand new sports coupe, took her to the most expensive places, sent her dozens of roses delivered by a striking young man who sang the latest love song playing on the radio right there on the front porch as he handed her the roses and so on. When he proposed he presented her with a diamond she later found out to be corundum and pulled out a bottle of champagne she later found out to be from the vats of one of his bootlegger buddies. She was far too young (eighteen) to be discriminating about such things and when she did become so later on it was too late. She was a gangster’s wife and people were whispering about her in the corners. Her sisters, both of whom married prominent doctors, would not come to her house and limited invitations to their houses to once a year at Christmas time. Her mother, apparently, was mortified and went to her grave so deeply embarrassed Ophelia’s sisters claimed she would be uncomfortable and restless there forever more.<br /><br />Men in general, confided her mother to Miss Grey, were beastly characters, somewhat like the gods in the Greek fables, whose permanently engorged members were always seeking a place of rest and relief. If it had not been for dear Doctor Blanchard declaring her too delicate for ‘the crude aspects of the relation between husband and wife’ shortly after Miss Grey’s birth, her father, that is Miss Grey’s father, would still ‘be up to it’ demanding this or that and every day she (Ophelia) thanked the dear Lord for Doctor Blanchard declaration that her delicate health would not allow her participation. Of course Johnny (father and husband) had found an outlet for his lusts elsewhere. There was no shortage of young floozies willing to throw themselves at a moneyed gangster, although in Johnny’s case they would not have had to throw themselves too vigorously for him to catch them she was sure. These activities of his were hidden behind a screen of smoky clubrooms and sleazy hotels, one it was impossible for her, a proper woman, a member of society, to penetrate not that she would want to anyway. But she did hear things, second and third hand so to speak. When Johnny had given up drinking liquor for rainwater and strawberry juice his sex drive seemed to increase tenfold in accordance with some kind of mathematics of bodily compensation and Ophelia had heard that he had three mistresses on the go, one of them barely nineteen years of age. Of course he was older now, middle aged, but if rumour was to be trusted he still had two with an occasional singer or dancer on the side. <br /><br />These revelations were not really revelations to Miss Grey although she pretended they were for her mother’s sake. Ophelia would have been scandalized to no end that her daughter, her well brought up daughter shaped on the lathe of an expensive finishing school run by nuns, knew about such things. But she did. Although not attracted to men sexually Miss Grey was very sharp in picking up the various indicators of her father’s erotic connections and had known for many years of his attachments to certain ladies of the underground. He did not actually tell her for that was not his style, but when he took her to an elaborately decorated suite in a certain hotel and left her to read in the parlour while he disappeared with his host, a beautiful younger woman who hung on his words as if they were the most delicious of intoxicating liquors, into the inner rooms for an hour returning with all the cells in his body relaxed and smiling, even without the scientific words and detailed anatomical drawings, it was obvious to her what was going on. She didn’t mind. For some reason, even at a young age, she did not have any of her mother’s Puritanism, and saw no reason to think of her father’s pleasures as wrong or evil. Indeed afterward, in the mood of expansive benevolence created by his post coital glow, he often took her to expensive shops and bought her whatever she wanted – toys when she was a child, jewelry, clothes, books and perfume when she got older.<br /><br />Especially books for from her mid teens on Miss Grey was a great reader. The kind of books she was allowed to read by her mother and the nuns did not satisfy her curiosity for, as one can imagine, they leaned heavily toward the pious and the devotional, leaving out all that she was the most interested in. Her father bought her whatever she wanted. Upon entering the bookstore he walked to the sitting area in the back, grabbing a fishing magazine from the rack on the way, and left her to take all the time she wanted wheeling about her cart, piling it high with thick volunms. He didn’t even glance at the titles although it would have done him little good to do so for other than reading newspapers, racing forms, accountant reports and the church bulliten over and over again when the Minister’s sermon was unusually tedious, he read nothing and would not have even heard the names of the books or the authors she herself read. He was a purely disinterested buyer of books and left all matters of taste, content and possible moral danger for her to solve for herself. Her mother would never in a million years understand why Miss Grey loved him for this, loved him for leaving her alone and letting her chose for herself and how whatever sins he had in other areas of his life, if they were sins, were as nothing to her beside this great disinterested generosity. Her father, being a gangster and all she supposed, was a strategic man and the books were delivered wrapped tightly so the servants could not see the titles, on an afternoon when her mother was off to her bridge club. She kept them in a locked trunk behind her dresses in her walk in closet where he mother’s lack of curiosity guaranteed she would never go or even if she did, bother about hounding her daughter for the key, a process Ophelia would find unpleasant and stressful.<br /><br />By the time she was in her early twenties Miss Grey read her way through the canon of western literature. She then embarked on a journey through the east, reading the classical Chinese, Japanese, Indian and others in translation. She then came back to the west and read through much not normally considered part of the canon – Conan Doyle, the great ghost stories, science fiction, the Norse Sagas, North American Indian legends. As well as fiction she read some Philosophy – Bertrand Russell, Spinoza (whom she loved dearly), Hegel, Wittgenstein, Weill, and religious philosophy, including Emerson, Dogen, the Buddhist Sutras, the Hindu classics and so many others the back of her closet had six trunks in it by the time she was twenty-five, all jammed with books. There was space left for perhaps one more trunk when fate intervened to solve forever the problem of where to hide her books.<br /><br />On the twenty-third of December, in the year xxxx, Miss Grey’s father and mother, in the back of the chauffeur driven car and on their way to her mother’s oldest sister for a Christmas party, stopped at a red light. While her parents were seating in the back, ignoring one another with a frosty hauteur, three men stepped out of the bushes and shot them and the driver so many times they were all dead within minutes, her father immediately for the autopsy report said one of the bullets hitting him blew out his brains. After the period of shock and disbelief Miss Grey thought it ironic that her mother and father, who for the twenty years preceding hardly said a word to one another other than pass the salt or the front door will have to be repaired, died together in a hail of bullets. Her mother who took some five minutes to die from blood loss, if she was conscious, must have thought this is where linking oneself to a gangster gets you – breathing your last in a limo splattered with blood and guts, stinking like a cesspool and a slaughterhouse combined while the engine idles and coloured lights of the approaching police cars strobe into the cold darkness.<br /><br />Well there she was, twenty-five, in possession of the legitimized part of her father’s fortune (the gangsters fought over the non legitimate), living alone in a large house staffed with six servants with the major accomplishment of her life being to have spent much of it with her nose stuck in a book. When the estate was probated she had enough money left her that, assuming she didn’t become a wastrel or a drug addict or both, she would never have to worry about money. Five of the servants, four women and a man, were older, all in their early sixties. Miss Grey had no desire to live in her parent’s style, (dinner parties, her mother’s ‘at home’ afternoons, bridge club Wednesdays, club memberships, etc.) so she set up a Trust which paid them a pension annuity and sent them on their way. The other, a young girl who had just come up from the country two years before to become Miss Grey’s maid, stayed behind in the house once lively and populated if not particularly happy, now so strangely quiet and empty. At the time Miss Grey and this girl, Aya by name, were already lovers, although by Aya’s preference, she continued performing the duties of Miss Grey’s maid.<br /><br />Aya was a thin slip of a thing, a good foot shorter than Miss Grey who, granted, was tall, so tall she always wore flat heels and avoided dress designs which elongated the figure. Aya, now that the other servants were gone, became cook and cleaner as well as lady’s maid but this was not particularly onerous for Miss Steel lived simply. She rose in the morning early, dressed herself in a housedress and sweater and descended to the kitchen where she made breakfast for the both of them. She served Aya breakfast in bed in a reversal of the maid/mistress roles, for Aya, in a naked moment early in their relationship, told her the one thing she hated about being a maid was the very early morning. After this Miss Steel, who loved the early morning, insisted Aya stay in bed until she was served breakfast. After breakfast, Aya got up and went about her chores. &nbsp; <br /><br />To have a life ahead of you and the resources to do with it what you wish is truly a glorious thing. Yet Miss Steel would not have said so at the time for she was unsure of herself and had not yet found her way. She read and read deeply and voluminously but reading is on the passive side of the co-creation between author and reader which brings forth an imaginary world. We are, after all, enjoying an imaginative world created by another. In its receiving, its ingesting there are elements of activity but not activity of the highest order. Miss Grey understood this at twenty-five but it was a nascent understanding. By the time she was thirty her understanding was fully conscious and she became dissatisfied with merely reading. This was a problem for she read twelve hours a day. Without her reading she would have been at a loss with what to do with herself.<br /><br />“Write, then,” Aya said to her when Miss Grey told her of her problem.<br /><br />“Easy to say,” replied Miss Grey.<br /><br />“Don’t write then,” said Aya.<br /><br />“Oh, stop it,” replied Miss Grey. According to Aya, who was a very practical, down to earth person, one either did something or one did not. Dithering was not a part of her nature.<br /><br />“You are too cut and dried, Aya,” said Miss Grey. “Things are not as simple as you make them out to be.”<br /><br />Aya did not reply to this. That she did not irritated Miss Grey to no end for she knew silence with Aya was an expression of smugness. Why should I bother, her silence was in effect saying, to point out the obvious to this poor deluded wretch? She’ll come around to it on her own without my wasting further energy by repeating what I have already said. Miss Grey had an urge to give her a good poke but controlled herself. Aya, although smaller, was much stronger and more physically active than Miss Grey. Earlier in their relationship they had indulged themselves in several wrestling matches and Aya had won them all. Not that Miss Grey minded for in sexual relations she preferred the bottom but, although she would not admit this to herself, she expected to be on top in the world of words and social relations. Aya usually accommodated her in this but that day, she had kicked against the traces. Steaming inside but pretending to coolly resume reading her book she waited until Aya left the room and went down the stairs before she said to herself aloud but not so loud that Aya could hear her, “You little bitch.”<br /><br />Two weeks later, after a great struggle not to write so as to prove Aya wrong in her smugness, she decided to set aside two hours a day, after breakfast in the morning, to write. What she would write she did not know. She would simply sit down before a blank sheet of paper and write something on it even if it was merely gibberish. Aya went out of the house in the mid morning to do the shopping. She would do it then and thus hide it from her. Otherwise Aya, silent and knowing, her big brown eyes bemused but so slightly bemused that one could not accuse their owner of definitely being so, would ascend into the seventh heaven of smugness and Miss Grey, weaker or not, would have to leap from her chair and strangle her.<br /><br />But writing when she left for her shopping trip did not prevent Aya from discovering what she was doing for Aya, although largely successful in pretending to be self contained and disinterested was really very interested, sneaky and snoopy. She noticed that several days in a row as she was leaving the house, Miss Grey took on what might be called the energy of expectation. She was waiting for Aya to go and her efforts to conceal this waiting were unsuccessful. Her hands, for example, as she stood in the hall to say good bye and bestow a chaste kiss on her beloved’s sweet smelling and lovely cheek, her hands were already involuntarily giving away the game by reaching out as if to arrange paper before her on a desk. Her body, leaned over to bestow its kiss, was filled with impatient exurberance. “Go!” it seemed to say. “Get thee gone; I have important things to do.”<br /><br />So one day, the fifth day of Miss Grey’s new regime, Aya went out the front door and down the step but when she reached the fence at the end of the walk leading to the street she turned right instead of left. This led her to the alley running along the side of the property and eventually to another alley which went across the back of the house. When she reached midway along the back, as lithe as a cat she slipped through the bushes growing there and came up to the back of the house. The day before she had put the orchard ladder against the sill of Miss Grey’s second floor study. When she reached the window she slowly raised her head until she could see Miss Steel seated at her desk and writing in such a furious and concentrated fashion that Aya suspected that even if she fell off the ladder and loudly crashed upon the ground below, Miss Grey would hardly notice. This seemed to Aya simultaneously a cause for celebration and a source of sadness. But now that she was on the ladder, spying through the window on her friend and lover, she felt somewhat ashamed of herself. She climbed down as quietly as she could and went off to do her shopping.<br /><br />What was Miss Grey writing? Well, gibberish mostly but not entirely for her reading had given her an excellent vocabulary and sense of structure and rhythm so that the descriptive passages she was writing, although lacking context, narrative superstructure and directional drive, were, nonetheless, in their own way, competent and skillful and each hour she put into sitting at the desk and writing was making them more so. They were essentially autobiographical, not in the sense they were direct transcriptions of passages from her own life, but in that they were descriptions of social scenes her mother might have experienced or ones that Miss Grey either imagined or experienced herself, or indeed, imagined she had experienced. When you read as much as Miss Grey had read it is sometimes hard to tell the difference.<br /><br />Six weeks after she began sitting at her desk two hours each morning, writing, Miss Grey came out of the closet and gave one of the passages to Aya to read. She wondered for some time whether she should do so for Aya, although far from illiterate, was not well read. She read romance novels running from the racy dime store variety to the at least somewhat elegant and refined. With romance novels if they consist of long descriptions of emotional and moral states, they are elegant and refined. If they lean to descriptions of sexual acts performed naked or semi naked then they are vulgar, perhaps even pornographic. Miss Grey thought the distinction silly. The only distinction she herself respected was whether the writing was good or not, although she had to admit that the later were excellent preludes to love making while the former more conducive to a discussion of morality and social order. Whether an ethical discussion was more significant in the larger order of things than an orgasm was a question which made no sense to her. But then again, since ethical discussions can only be had by sentient beings and sentient beings can only be created by a sexual act, then perhaps the orgasm was superior or at least came first as a necessary premise to questions of morality.<br /><br />The passage she gave Aya was a description of a dinner party. It was in the style of Proust, although &nbsp;simplified, stripped of much of its arabesques and elaborate metaphors, understandably, as a nod toward the magazine style of the day, for although a great wanderer through the fields of the literary imagination, Miss Steel was a grounded woman and had in her sights certain women’s magazines she planned on sending her work to once she had achieved a satisfactory level of competency. Miss Steel knew the foundation of the piece was Proust but Aya did not, for she had never read Proust, indeed had never even heard of him. <br /><br />Aya loved the piece. She praised it to high heaven, especially what she considered to be a subtext of smouldering eroticism involving the young heroine (as Aya called her) and the headwaiter which while granted it did not actually break out and declare itself, was still there lurking in the background so to speak, eyeballs rolling and tongue hanging out. Aya was sure the success of the piece lay in a great red sea of eroticism lying beneath the elegant restraint of the prose and the gentlewomanly tinkle of conversation and crockery. She claimed such a combination would sell like hotcakes and urged Miss Grey to send it off to the magazines immediately. Miss Grey was a little taken aback at this analysis but on reflection thought Aya to be essentially correct. She spent three days combing the draft for errors and then sent it off. <br /><br />Nobody could have been more surprised than Miss Grey when a letter came back two weeks later accepting the story. Three weeks later another letter arrived with a cheque enclosed. Aya was ecstatic. Miss Grey was now a writer. To be the partner and companion of a writer, to Aya, was much more prestigious than being the partner of a rich woman. Riches were, after all, inherited, whereas being a writer came from one’s own talent and hard work. She insisted Miss Grey move her work area to the room at the back on the ground floor, twice the size of the study on the second floor. Miss Grey, after first resisting (she was very conservative – her first impulse was to leave things just the way they were) allowed herself to be swept away by Aya’s enthusiasm. Aya cleaned and painted the room herself, ordered in bookshelves, brought carpet samples from the store for Miss Grey to choose an area rug, and arranged for movers to come and move the chairs and big desk down from the old study. It was truly a magnificent room. It had a bank of windows out onto the garden in the back, high windows from floor to ceiling. At first Miss Grey felt dwarfed by the room’s size, by the great sweep of the window view. She soon learned to pull the drapes when she was writing. (something which Aya thought strange – surely the view out the window should inspire Miss Grey) She positioned two of the bookcases so they enclosed the space to the right of her desk. Thus ‘entombed’, as she called it, she wrote mornings everyday from eight until noon. When the old mantle clock (with new, accurate works installed) struck twelve she capped her pen (she used an old fountain pen of her father’s fitted with a new nib) rose from the desk and walked into the kitchen where she had lunch with Aya.<br /><br />Within two years Miss Grey was published regularly by the a dozen high circulation magazines. Every week she received letters from other magazines requesting story submissions. A publisher was getting ready a book of her short stories for publication. The magazines she wrote for were asking for a photograph and biographical details ( she had given them a brief fictional bio and published the stories under a pen name – Olivia Monmoth) but she was unsure what she wanted to do about all this. She didn’t really want to give interviews and the thought of her photograph being studied by thousands of people made her slightly nauseous.<br /><br />“Well,” said Aya, “You are a famous writer now and you will just have to put up with it. You owe it to your readers and to the magazines which send you all those fat cheques.”<br /><br />“Nonsense,” replied Miss Grey. “I owe them absolutely nothing. They don’t have to read my stories if they don’t want to and neither do the magazines have to publish them. I would have to be a complete fool to talk myself into thinking that I owe my life to anyone just because I write stories.”<br /><br />Aya thought this attitude very ungrateful. This, unfortunately she thought, was typical of Miss Grey. She supposed it to be a matter of upbringing. To be brought up a princess leads to exaggerated ideas about one’s independence. But then again, thought Aya, Miss Grey was independent, wasn’t she? She could stop writing stories tomorrow, never get another cheque and it would make no real difference. She would go on living in the big house just as before. Nothing would change.<br /><br />“Nonetheless,” said Aya, “publicity must be taken care of somehow. People like to know something about their favourite author. They like to feel as if they know them and share in some way in what they imagine to be their exciting life.”<br /><br />Miss Grey broke out laughing. Although she always looked the lady and for the most part acted as if she were one, thought Aya, Miss Grey could often be very vulgar. When something made her incredulous she laughed in the braying style of a donkey while flinging her arms about as if she were drowning and searching for a grip on a dock or a lifesaver. When this subsided she snorted loudly three of four times and then wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. When this performance was over Aya said,<br /><br />“Dear Ali, (Miss Grey’s Christian name) surely you are not so insane to think you can be a popular author and remain anonymous.”<br /><br />“Yes, I am exactly so insane dear Aya,” replied Miss Grey. “They get text and that’s all they get.” This ended the conversation for it was eight AM and Miss Steel led Aya to the door by the elbow and pushed her gently into the corridor. For Miss Steel the writing hours between eight and twelve were an absolute.<br /><br />Miss Grey’s stories were so popular in the magazines that the publisher decided to forgo their usual requirement of an extensive book tour. Miss Grey refused to do the tour but the publisher thought she was already so well known the lack of a tour would not hurt sales. They were right. Top of the best seller list and so on. This, of course, brought even more pressure on the publisher to trot out their best selling author but unfortunately for them Miss Grey was not the trotting type. They sent her letter after letter laying out various possible schedules (concentrating on the sunny south for it was winter and the north where Miss Grey lived was frozen solid and they thought they might lure her with all expenses paid trip through the balmy south) but Miss Grey refused them all, eventually, after ascertaining the envelope did not contain a cheque, tearing them up without reading them.<br /><br />Aya could hardly believe all this. An expenses paid trip through the south from coast to coast, staying at the finest hotels, eating chef cooked meals seemed to her to be the summit of desirability. But Miss Grey was adamant. She was not the slightest bit interested in going and would not go. Miss Grey liked it exactly where she was with her daily schedule, her cats, her aviary at the back of the house, her two walks a day, her comfortable, cozy bed with the iron fireplace at the foot where Aya built up the fire and put on the screen just before they went to bed. Twice a week they went to the movie house by taxi, twice a month they had dinner at a downtown restaurant. They went to the city’s two offerings of opera a year, to the three or four ballet performances and to the Chamber Orchestra. Relatives were entertained once in the spring and again at Christmas time. Since the gangster was dead even Miss Grey’s two doctor married aunts attended. They had the immediate neighbours over for a barbecue midsummer. One year after first publishing Miss Grey had run into an old school friend who was also lesbian and her and Aya now had a gathering once a month where the ‘girls’ came and had dinner. Three of these were great readers and they met six or seven times a year to discuss books and read poetry aloud. Two gay males also attended, friends of Miss Grey’s original contact and one straight male who everyone referred to as HIM, even when he was present for he was a good humoured man and enjoyed his status as the only heterosexual man in the crowd. With all this Miss Grey was mightily satisfied and could see no reason to go gallivanting about subjecting herself to rude questions from strangers. All of her friends knew she was Olivia Monmoth but they were not overly impressed. To them she was Ali and that she wrote ‘racy’ stories for the magazines which sold like hotcakes was interesting but not that interesting. They were far more impressed by the ballroom where she and Aya entertained and even more impressed by the catered dinners and tortes cooked jointly by Aya and Miss Grey for dessert. And finally they were just friends for as time went on, perhaps because Miss Grey was doing something she loved and was thus satisfied and relaxed, they simply enjoyed the couple’s company for they were warm, funny and enjoyable to be with. The icing on the cake was Miss Grey’s mind. She was witty, highly intelligent and erudite. There was no anti intellectualism at Ali and Aya’s, very different from other spots in the city where money and knuckle dragging were de rigeur.<br /><br />Two years after Miss Grey’s first collection of stories, the publishers came out with another. The head of the firm decided to send, unannounced, for she was sure Miss Grey would give a resounding no if asked, a representative to try coaxing her into an appearance at two or three events in the Big City. So one day in June, a fine sunny day so warm Aya and Ali were eating lunch in the side yard where the sun was pouring through the elm foliage and dappling the white table cloth, a young woman knocked at the door. The two women could hear the knock clearly. Ali got up and peeked around the corner of the house. Aya watched her gazing at whatever was there for some time, wrinkling her brow in study and then came back and sit down at the table.<br /><br />“Who is it?” asked Aya.<br /><br />“A young woman from the publisher,” Ali replied.<br /><br />“Are you sure?” asked Aya.<br /><br />“Not absolutely but ninety-nine percent,”<br /><br />“What are you going to do?” asked Aya.<br /><br />“Nothing,” said Ali.<br /><br />“That would be rude,” said Aya.<br /><br />“They started the rudeness by not taking no for an answer.”<br /><br />“Still, that doesn’t give you an excuse for continuing it,” said Aya.<br /><br />“Yes it does,” Ali replied.<br /><br />Aya decided to say nothing. When Ali got into a mood the best thing was to leave or remain silent. She never stayed in her moods for long but when she was in one it was impossible to deal with her. Trying to make her see sense only made it worse.<br /><br />The knocking from around the corner continued with short intervals of rest. Aya supposed publisher’s agents would have to be persistent. If they weren’t they would never last.<br /><br />When, after ten minutes, the knocking had not stopped, Ali rose from her seat and walked around the corner, coming back a few minutes later with a young woman who looked like she ought to be in high school rather than knocking on the doors of famous authors. She was flustered and embarrassed. Ali sat her in her own chair and went and fetched herself another. Aya placed the plate of sandwiches in front of her and poured her a cup of tea. After an ineffective protest that she was not really hungry the young woman dug into the sandwiches, eating steadily until they were all gone. She drank three cups of tea. Aya and Ali watched her in astonishment. Perhaps, between assignments, the publisher kept her imprisoned on half rations. When she was done Ali invited her to come along for the after lunch walk.<br /><br />The young woman stayed for three days. After the first day she gave up trying to persuade Ali to tour. The contest was unequal. Ali was a very determined person who knew exactly what she wanted and the young woman was, well, more or less just an ordinary young woman. But Ali, feeling sorry for her, did throw her a bone.<br /><br />“Why don’t you make out as if you were Olivia Monmoth and do the touring yourself?<br /><br />“Oh Goodness!” exclaimed the young woman and broke into a horsy laugh.<br /><br />“Why not?” asked Ali.<br /><br />“It wouldn’t be right,” was the reply.<br /><br />“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ali. “There is no right and wrong in such matters. It’s business. If the lady’s clubs are convinced you are Olivia then you are Olivia.”<br /><br />“I couldn’t.”<br /><br />“Of course you could. With a little coaching you could be Olivia to a ‘T’.”<br /><br />The young woman continued to protest but her resistance eventually broke down under Ali’s browbeating. Aya and Ali had a loud argument that night when the young woman went out for a walk. When she came back the three of them had a long talk.<br /><br />Aya traveled with the young woman back to her Big City and (with phone calls to Ali and her lawyer) negotiated the young woman’s contract.<br /><br />“It’s an acting job,” Ali said to Aya when she arrived home. “That poor thing doesn’t have what it takes to be an agent for dog trainer. Now she has a nice job lunching at lady’s clubs three months a year with a generous salary far in excess of what she would make doing anything else.”<br /><br />“I’m just worried she might loose her balance pretending she is someone else,” said Aya.<br /><br />“But the someone else she is pretending to be doesn't exist. Besides stage and screen actors do it all the time. Whether it unbalances them depends on what they started out with in the first place. She’s a very grounded girl at heart. She’ll be just fine.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-30979512947372918612012-10-21T21:34:00.000-07:002012-10-21T21:34:08.791-07:00Enquiry ManagerEnquiry Manager<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Enquiry Manager<br /><br /><br /><br />Being a Enquiry Manager administrator was an isolating job. Firstly one worked in a compound sitting on a neck of land jutting out into the estuary of the river, a compound surrounded even along the river by high, guarded walls with coils of razor wire and electronic sensors atop it. There were sentry boxes every three hundred feet, manned 24 – 7. Secondly the compound itself was isolated. The jut narrowed as it came onto the mainland presenting a three hundred yard interface at the neck which was double walled with the land on the city side of the walls completely flat and empty for six hundred feet. The section of city which began at the end of this was a wasteland of ruined warehouses, at night their blind, empty, lightless windows staring out at the darkness so sadly that regardless of the fact they were wood and bricks, metal and mortar, they seemed, in their lifeless abandonment, their desolation, to give off an atmosphere of organic despair. Thirdly one left the compound infrequently. Other than his vacations (two months a year) during the years he worked there Alan left the compound only six times.<br /><br />Alan had a fourth source for his sense of isolation – he felt at odds with most of his fellow administrators whom he considered to be blinkered in the extreme and whose opinions he considered, for the most part, to be borderline psychotic. Alan’s reputation was that of a silent man, a lone wolf. This was not really true of his essential self but certainly was of the self he had created to get along with his fellows in the compound. By saying little he was excused from repeating the shibboleths they mouthed every day which if he himself had said them would have made him physically ill.<br /><br />He stayed because he needed the money. He was the sole support of a family of ten who lived in modest circumstances in a house across the river. He and his estranged wife had six children, all of them grown and none capable of making a living. Five had a rare genetic disease common among the city’s inhabitants. A small minority of scientists wondered if it were not caused by the city’s drinking water which they claimed to be chockfull of contaminants but the majority of informed opinion sided with the Council of Considered and Thoughtful Resolutions, which claimed the disease a result of karmic obstructions imbedded in the DNA of a long line of ancestors. The disease wasted muscle, made walking and balance tricky and thus rendered them incapable of sustained work of any kind. The sixth child was blind and, according to the decrees of the Council, to be tolerated in the interior of a private space but not allowed out in public. The children along with his wife made seven. The others making up the household were his two aged parents and his wife’s bedridden mother. As has already been said the house they lived in was modest but fortunately it was large, a necessity for a house sheltering such a number.<br /><br />Every month when he received his pay Alan sent seventy-five percent of it in cash, by messenger, across the river. His wife sent a note back by the same messenger thanking him. The note was written in a fine backward leaning script perfectly centred on a piece of brownish notepaper and sealed in an envelope of the same colour. The bottom drawer of his desk, a large drawer twelve inches deep, was full of these notes all replaced neatly in their envelopes with the flaps tucked in. That his wife had sent them every month and that he read them and saved them in the drawer seemed to him to be a symbolic comment upon their marriage and the cool, exact and formal thing it had been. When he signed the contract to work for Enquiry Manager which involved him living in the compound ten months a year, he was mightily relieved for by that time the tension in the household between he and his wife was close to unbearable. He spent two weeks of his yearly vacation in a hotel room visiting the house every day. The other six weeks he spent upriver in a cabin he built some years ago with his own hands.<br /><br />Fortunately for Allan his job at Enquiry Manager was technical. He was the administrator for the unit which wrote code for robots. He had his own small building containing five private offices with a large common area. He had twenty-one staff ranging from the janitor to an assistant manager. When he first came to the compound he wrote code but over the years he moved more and more away from writing to administrating and supervising. Now he did no writing at all. His days were filled with assigning tasks, dealing with personnel issues, balancing budgets and writing reports. He didn’t hate his job but found no real satisfaction in it. Yet he considered himself lucky to have a good paying job that he did not loath and which enabled him to support his family in a more than adequate style.<br /><br />But at the same time all this was true, Alan had a great longing. His work was journeyman and technical and he longed for something more absorbing, more compelling. In three months he would be fifty and time was passing by. During his ten months a year in the compound he had little time for anything but work. In the six weeks he spent at the cabin he brought with him at least one, sometimes two of his grown children and although they were mostly independent, there were still much that he had to do as a result of them being there. He had a longing to be free of his responsibilities. He would have loved to wander about the country for a year or so seeing how other people lived, what they did with themselves, if there were any who managed to live a life free of the slavery his own life had become. But this was impossible. His family would starve. To follow his own desires at the expense of others would bring down upon him not only self-condemnation but the anger of heaven as well. He had created two poles in his mind and he was torn between them. He felt he would never be free of the conflict and despair he felt growing within him everyday.<br /><br />Then, one day in his eleventh year in the compound, on a fine day in late spring, on one of the short trips outside his job occasionally required, he met an unusual man. The meeting he left the compound for was in an office building in the old downtown not far from the river. When it was over the two men with him decided to go on a tour of the building. Alan declined. He had taken it some years before. He and the other two agreed to meet in the lobby of the monstrous high rise when the tour was over, two hours or so. He took the elevator to the ground floor and walked outside onto the vast boulevard &nbsp;running along the front of the building. The pavement was jammed with automated vehicles. The noise was incredible. The stink of gasoline, exhaust fumes, burnt oil, hot rubber made him slightly nauseous. He didn’t know but he suspected that if he went down the side alley one hundred yards from the entrance, he might run into some area worth walking through and perhaps a place to grab a bite to eat. The security robot followed him, of course. It was strictly against regulations to disable it but he was on the team that wrote its code, so as soon as they turned into the alley and was out of sight, he ordered it to stop, flipped up its control cover and, punching in a series of complicated instructions, ordered it to wait where it was until he came back. Over its shoulders he draped the bright red suit coat denoting him as a member of the bureaucrat classes. Underneath he wore only a generic white shirt cut much like the one worn by most people you see on the street. He wore a pair of scruffy jeans, something his superiors objected to but stopped short of insisting on, for it was the tradition in the compound that the code writers dressed more freely than other bureaucrats. Thus decked out he would appear to people not close enough to notice the expensive watch, the impeccable haircut, the expensive handmade shoes, to be an ordinary person, perhaps a store owner or a small trader of some kind.<br /><br />The alley was a long one for the building was deep. When he came to the end of it there was another alley traveling at right angles to it. After a moment’s hesitation he turned right for the river was somewhere to the right and he might come upon a park, or docks or something different from the usual maze of urban alleys. He was surprised to find that after ten minutes of walking along this new alley he was at the river. He had thought the river was much farther away.<br /><br />In river cities it is usual for the well to do to live along the river banks – spreads of lawns with docks and sailboats on the riverbank, and above this the house sprawling its wings across a hill built up to prevent flooding and create a view. But this was not so in the City for the better off chose to live outside the city, in places similar to the compound, circled round with walls and guards. They felt being spread out along the river made them too vulnerable. So, much of the riverbanks were occupied by the poor. There was the occasional ‘gracious’ home chopped up into rooms and small apartments but much of the banks were occupied by homemade shacks constructed of salvaged or stolen materials. Into the sluggish current of the river jutted wharves made of tree trunks cut from the copses of trees along the banks. From these the local people swam, fished and launched their primitive homemade boats. Some worked weirs along the banks. Other used nets of various kinds and description. These people were called the river people and perhaps three quarters of their food came from fishing, shooting birds and trapping small animals along the banks.<br /><br />The river people were not gardeners. Some of the women tended small salad gardens but that was about it. So Alan was very surprised when, upon coming to the end of his alley to find a long, wide vegetable garden leading down to the river. As it swept down to the bank the garden flowed, so to speak, around the dilapidated sides of a small shack distinguished from most of the river shacks by having a stone chimney sticking up through its metal roof. Midway down the garden, on the left hand side, was a man working between the rows with a hoe. Most uncharacteristically Alan decided to walk along the cut grass beside the garden and speak with this man. Ordinarily he would not have been here in the first place but, given that, it was truly extraordinary that he decided to walk up to the man and engage him in conversation.<br /><br />The man was a fisherman who came from far up the river where the people, besides fishing and hunting, grew large gardens.<br /><br />“Everyone here,” he said, “thinks I am crazy to slave away in the garden. They think it unmanly, women’s work. But I don’t care what they think. My family and I have vegetables all year from the garden. The people around are hungry by the end of the winter and sick of eating fish and only fish while we eat root vegetables with our fish all winter long.”<br /><br />It was early in the season and they had an hour’s conversation about growing plants, with the man doing most of the talking for what did Alan know about growing plants? Before he left the man gave him a bag containing a variety of seeds and told him how to plant them. Carrying the seeds Alan walked back to meet his two companions.<br /><br />Alan lived in a small house behind his workplace. It was thought necessary that Managers live in separate quarters to keep a certain distance between them and those they supervised. At the side of the house was an open area which got lots of sun. When Alan dug in it with a shovel the earth was loamy and black, the kind of earth the man told him to plant in. Over two days, after work, Alan turned up a twelve by twenty section, screened some soil for the tops of the rows and planted. He had rows of beans, beets, carrots, tomatoes, green pepper, onions, squash, garlic and spinach.<br /><br />Alan was already considered eccentric by his fellows in the compound. He seldom went to social events organized by the block social convenor. In conversation he was succinct, laconic. Even though he was the Manager of his section, at celebratory social events he attended for a bare minimum of time and then suddenly disappeared, leaving the hierarchical representation to his much more convivial assistant manager. His opinions on social issues were not known. When people began a conversation on such questions he listened politely for a few minutes without saying anything himself and then left, often so abruptly his departure was considered by many to be rude. He did not gossip although he would listen to it sometimes with a bemused expression on his face. When he did talk in an animated manner, it was about an idea or a book he was reading or a development in computer code writing. Occasionally he would say very cynical things about the Environmental Committee’s new plans to clean up the river, such as, “Well, I suppose they will simply calibrate the sensors differently. That should help a lot.” or “If they take readings after ordering a two day cessation of effluent dumping, that should do the trick.” Very few caught the sharp drift of these comments so he was never reported. Most thought them a manifestation of a weird sense of humour as if he were a man addicted to puns or Latin jokes and so narcissistic he failed to realize others didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.<br /><br />So when Alan began digging up the soil beside his house and some weeks later plants began to grow, strange, queer looking things no one had ever seen before, to most people this was simply Alan expanding his realm of eccentric behaviour. That he spent his spare time watering, weeding, and hauling wheelbarrows full of leaves to build a compost heap, was strange but not so strange if one considered it was Alan doing it. When the garden began to produce he set up a portable gas stove in his porch to make stir fry, soups and stews. He invited people over for a bowl of stew but most considered his concoctions to be far too earthy and were afraid they might contain harmful bacteria. It was as if they were made to eat grass and rough, chunky, strangely pungent things lacking the wonderfully even consistency of the cafeteria food with its smooth tastes chemically formulated, sugared and oil injected. His visitors dwindled until there was only two, one a genuine adherent, the other a sycophant looking for a leg up the promotion ladder. The genuine adherent, a strange bird like Alan, a much younger code writer whose own anti social behaviour was tolerated because of his brilliance, began going to Allan’s every evening and helping hoe and haul leaves for the compost pile. This man’s name was Uri and although he was the long, skinny type who reminded one of a reed or a tall stalk of grass, he was amazingly strong despite his spindly, stretched out muscles. On Saturday he and Alan worked in the plot all day, stopping occasionally for a bowl of stew or a green salad or a delicious roasted beet or two. During work breaks, drinking coffee while sitting on the grass beside the garden they talked away at a great pace. Everyone who saw them assumed they were talking about plants and the garden and this was true but they had another topic of conversation as well.<br /><br />Uri came from a small community in the hinterland. In school he was obviously brilliant and at the age of fifteen was given a full scholarship in the City. Otherwise he would not have been able to attend for his parents were small farmers with nowhere near the resources necessary to pay for a son at the university. The intellectual ferment at the University was just the thing Uri needed. He blossomed like a wild rose and graduated with a Doctorate in computer science before he was twenty. He came to the compound a few months later and had been there for five years. His specialty was robotics. Within the first year he was the source of more innovations than the whole robot research unit had been in the previous ten. Alan recognized his worth the first time he met him and was ruthless in clearing away the deadwood in the department which would have hampered him. He employed the very simple method of transferring jealous and reactionary researchers to other areas of research. In this Alan had not the slightest scruple. For him those who had become stupid and calcified should get out of the way and if they didn’t he removed them.<br /><br />From the age of twelve to nineteen Uri lived mainly in the world of ideas. He lived, breathed and ate ideas. Three weeks after his nineteenth birthday he fell in love with a young woman whom he met at a student party on the riverbank. These parties were informal annual spring events in student life in the City, one which the university tried its best to discourage but they may as well have tried to prevent spring itself, for the exuberance of the young people and bonfires lighting the dark while the students danced to the weird anarchistic music they loved, went together like matter and energy. The young woman, beautiful and as spirited as a tigress, by some strange principle of attraction, straight armed all the good looking frat boys and zeroed in on Uri, gangly, solitary, self absorbed, whose male beauty was of the highly individual kind but whose intelligence, character and personality shone like gold nugget beneath the surface of an obscuring pool. Uri, granted somewhat otherworldly, but certainly not blind to the beauty of women, did not object to being seduced and the two young people spent the summer together living in a shack on the river belonging to her father, a fisherman. After this they were inseparable. Uri’s contract at the compound included that his ‘wife’ (they were unmarried, neither believed in it) live with him there in separate quarters. This was unusual for the compound contained few women, the men were expected to live away from their wives, but when the contract negotiator tried to refuse him, Uri said he would be leaving then and going back to his home village to work on his father’s farm. This was not an idle threat either. The young couple had determined to do exactly that if she were not allowed to live in the compound. The negotiator quickly changed his mind and made the arrangements.<br /><br />The bond with his woman changed things for Uri. He began to notice the solid real world about him and the humans who inhabited it. His introduction to her family, physical workers much like the farmers he came from, made him examine the prejudices against their class interwoven into much of what he was taught at the University, the notion that intelligence flowed upward, for example. It was clear from his memories of his own community and his relationships with his girl’s family, that this simply was not true. Fortunately for Uri this did not lead, as it does for many, to exchanging an old set of prejudices for a new. But it did lead to him wanting to leave his research job at the compound. It did lead to him looking into the practical uses of his discoveries and becoming horrified at the ramifications. One of his early electronic discoveries, for instance, seemed to be leading towards a robot which could hover above a crowd, identify a single individual in it and kill him or her with a laser beam or an explosive rocket. He and Ella, his partner, spent hours in the evenings talking about leaving and starting up a farm north on the river. This is why he was so taken with the notion of gardening and when Alan invited him to help he snapped up the invitation. Gardening, farming, could be a way out, a way he and Ella could create a life for themselves outside what he had come to call (only in his own mind and to Ella and a few very trusted friends) the structure of horror.<br /><br />What he and Alan spoke of then, was leaving. But the situation of the two men was radically different. Uri and his partner could leave at any time. They could either go through the official channels which might take a year or two, or slip away at night up the river into the hinterland where even the authorities could not find them. Alan, on the other hand, had responsibilities. He could not leave his family to starve. Uri, after becoming aware of the problem for the older man, did some thinking and a little tinkering and came up with the suggestion of a solution. But Alan was leery. Not only did this solution seem dangerous but dishonest as well.<br /><br />“Of course it is dishonest,” Uri said. “But they themselves have been dishonest and it is only a matching dishonesty. Fire must be fought with fire.”<br /><br />Still Alan was doubtful. “What if they catch us?” he asked.<br /><br />“They will kill us of course,” replied Uri. “But at least they will kill us straight off. What we have right now will kill us very slowly over a number of years.”<br /><br />For two years Alan and Uri talked about Uri’s solution, Alan leaning toward it one month and away the next. Finally, when they were harvesting the beets from the third of Alan’s gardens, Uri said to him, “She wants to go. She hates it here and so do I. We can no longer live like this. We are becoming moral monsters, predators. She feels she is living in some kind of terrible limbo world where there is no connection to the earth, no connection to basic sanity. I have some money saved. We plan to buy a sailboat and leave without permission. She says we cannot go through official channels. She says they will never let me go. You are the goose which lays the golden eggs she says. She says once they find there will be no more golden eggs they will kill the goose, bake it in the oven.”<br /><br />Alan begged Uri to give him another two days to think. Uri agreed. “But only two days,” he told him. “Time is running out. No more wasting time.”<br /><br />The next day Alan and Uri went for a walk along the river and Alan agreed to his plan.<br /><br />The plan involved Uri computer hacking and Alan using his administrative authority to cover it up. There was to be a transfer of funds from a number of research accounts into a complex maze of external accounts and then into a combination of gold and cash. When these transfers were complete all three of them, Uri, Ella and Alan, would, during their next vacation, (happily synchronized with the end of the gardening season) first leave town ostensibly for a tour along the river, and then, when they thought the opportunity right, up the river into the hinterland. No one but the three of them and an uncle of Ella’s were in on this plan. In the compound you could trust no one. There were spies and sycophants everywhere.<br /><br />The transfer of funds went without a hitch. It was not necessary for Alan to cover anything up. No one made enquiries. It was as if nothing had happened. The gold and cash were in the hands of Ella’s uncle, a fisherman and part time smuggler.<br /><br />Uri went on his vacation three days before Alan, staying with Ella in the same shack on the river they spent the summer they first met.<br /><br />On the night before he was to leave the compound for his vacation, Alan received a message from an old friend. Alan was taking his nightly walk before turning in when the man came up behind him and fell into step with him.<br /><br />“I will tell you something,” the man said, “and then leave right away. It is too dangerous for me to speak at length with you but what I tell you now is all I know anyway. They know. A man will be on the bus into the city tomorrow – one of them. He will be the only one on the bus you don’t know. He will try to befriend you and invite himself down to the river to meet your friends. That’s all. Good luck.”<br /><br />Alan’s friend slipped off the path and disappeared into the darkness.<br /><br />Later that night Alan texted this information to Uri on the secure device Uri had given him.<br /><br />“Bring the man along with you, of course,” Uri texted back. “There is more than enough room for another in our little expedition.”<br /><br />Alan did as Uri told him. The man seemed delighted with how easy it was to make his connection. As they walked along the alley beyond the tall office building, the alley leading to the old man’s garden and in turn to the dwellings of Ella’s relatives, the man smiled broadly at the grass fields and the tall, towering trees as if he indeed were out on a pleasure excursion after a long period of hard work which had been stressful and tiring. But his excursion did not last long. When they were halfway down the alley, in the midst of shade and shadow under the canopies of the great elms lining the road, someone shot the man through the head with some kind of silenced weapon for there was no sound but for a soft pizzzzzt. He dropped like a bag of sand onto the road and almost immediately two men come out from the trees with a wheelbarrow. They stripped the dead man completely naked, one of them cutting from his neck a device embedded under the skin. His clothes and the device they rolled into a ball and dropped into a large metal drum filled with water by the side of the road. They weighted it down with a cinder block and it sunk to the bottom out of sight. They then picked up the body and lay it in the wheelbarrow and covered it with a blue tarp. This was all done so efficiently, so quickly that when it was over, Alan could hardly believe it had happened. But it had happened and the two men were gesturing to him to walk with them as one of them pushed the barrow down the road to the river, while the other, walking beside him, hummed a popular tune Alan often heard on the radio. He followed. What else could he to do?<br /><br />Uri, Alan, and Ella left that night, as soon as it was dark, to sail up river.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp;<br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-78145045359111413932012-10-14T09:20:00.002-07:002012-10-14T09:20:42.584-07:00The Reverend and Mrs Gordon<br /><br /><br />The Reverend and Mrs Gordon<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mrs Gordon lived in a shack on the river. She was a very old woman, somewhere in her nineties. No one knew exactly how old she was for she refused to say herself and all others qualified to speak on the matter were dead.<br /><br />Mrs Gordon wasn’t really a Mrs. Many years ago she had moved towns in the hinterland and found it advantageous to claim her six children were sired by a Mr Gordon, now deceased. A widow was more respected in those old towns than a woman with six children all of whom had different fathers. When, occasionally, during the children’s growing up, one of the father’s appeared, she claimed them to be uncles and taught the children to do so as well. The children knew this was untrue yet went along for they found this editing of the strict and literal truth to be socially useful.<br /><br />At the time of which we are speaking the children had long ago grown up and moved away for the town had little employment opportunities for the young. One by one they made off to other places. Eventually all had families with children, grandchildren and even great grandchildren. &nbsp;Occasionally a great load of them came down river by boat to visit the old lady and occasionally she traveled to see them. Two of the originals were now dead. Two were so ill they now no longer traveled and two, the oldest, had turned religious in old age and spent their time traveling around to Revivals where, amidst the frenzy of the shouting crowds, they renewed their spirits.<br /><br />Mrs Gordon was a magic practitioner. Her one room shack was filled with the natural products necessary for such a practice – animal bones, herbs, feathers, hallucinatory plants, healing plants, etc. She had learned her trade from many teachers over a long life and knew not only just about all the magic lore there was to know but healing as well. Her bread and butter, as far as income goes, for even a magician and healer has to eat and have the handyman patch the roof on her cabin now and again, was a plant she was taught to identify by one of the old people who had lived in the area for some thousands of years before the coming of prospectors, mines, factories and so on. This plant grew in the wild some ten miles from the town. In the late summer every year Mrs. Gordon traveled to the locale where it grew and picked several large burlap bags full. She was very secretive about these gathering trips, partially because there were those who would abuse the plant for thrill seeking purposes but also because it’s sale as a pain reliever was the support of her old age. Anyone in town in need of a strong, genuine pain reliever, went to Mrs. Gordon.<br /><br />The old lady was measured in what she charged. If the asker was well to do she soaked them liberally. If poor she charged very little. If destitute she often gave the mixture away free. She was in her own way a humanitarian and, although she would not admit it to anyone but herself, she hated to see someone in unrelieved suffering.<br /><br />There was a minister in that town, one Herbert Grimelody. The Reverend was death on magic and also death on pain relieving medicines or, for that matter, medicines of any kind. According to him sickness, disease and pain were the judgments of God and worm like, sinful humans, should not interfere with them. Why God had not struck down Mrs Gordon with a righteous thunderbolt long ago was one of the great mysteries present in the mind of Reverend Grimelody. He himself had tried, using white magic and righteous energy of course, to fry the old lady in her tracks many times but none of these attempts had succeeded. He gave them up some ten years before because he came to the conclusion that God had a reason for enduring the apostasy of this wicked old woman, a reason He chose not to disclose to the Reverend, no doubt because his heart was full of wickedness and sin.<br /><br />Nonetheless Reverend Grimelody did his best to dog the steps of Mrs. Gordon. Eleven times over twenty years he had tried to get the council to run her out of town. But only two of the ten councillors were adherents to his brand of religiosity and each time the motion was introduced by one of his Church members it was voted down. This made the Reverend bitter in his heart, not, he told himself, from the irritation of being constantly thwarted by a frail old woman who in a proper world he could snap like a twig and leave dead in the nearest ditch, but because Mrs Gordon was clearly an agent of the devil, a witch, a conduit of the dark side, an evil forest woman with potions that corrupted even the good and carry their immortal souls off to eternal damnation. That the town’s people did not agree puffed him out like a poisonous adder about to strike but there was nothing he could do. He had to swallow his own poison and digest it in the bitter watches of the night.<br /><br />Four times the Reverend, whose sect had deep roots in religious pragmatism, tried to have the old lady killed. There was no shortage of men in his congregation ready to do the job as long as it was sanctioned by the religious authority of the Minister. But none of these attempts worked. In two cases the old lady was not home when, in the middle of the dark night, the killer arrived. In fact she was not at home for some weeks after, seeming to have disappeared, magically her adherents said, into nothingness. The other two times, when the killer entered the house he found the old lady sleeping in her bed but when he raised his gun to shoot she disappeared and the killer was transported to a spot on the riverbank where, against all the efforts of his will, he tossed his loaded gun into the river. The Reverend tried his best to suppress knowledge of these attempts but in a small town people talk. For some time after the last attempt, rough men would accost him on the street and mock him by asking, “Have you seen Old Lady Gordon lately, Herbert? I hear she has been asking about you.” One of his own Churchmen told him in confidence that he should leave the old lady alone. “If she turns up dead one morning there are those who will blame you and they will not hesitate to kill you in vengeance,” he said. This put the fear into the Reverend and he ceased looking over his congregation on Sunday mornings searching for a new assassin. When some of the young men told him they would succeed surely for they were ‘righteous in the Lord’, he turned them down. A Divine communication had informed him, he told them, that the ‘time of the Lord’s vindication’ was not now but in the future. He told them to hold themselves in readiness. This they did if the evidence of their grim, intense faces before him each Sunday morning was any indication.<br /><br />Some two years after these failed attempts the Reverend had an inspiration. He had been told that the old lady went, in mid August of every year, into the forest to collect the plant yielding her ungodly pain medicine. She sailed up river with an old man who the Reverend suspected of once being her lover (that he might presently be her lover was too distressing a possibility for the Reverend to consider). This old man, perhaps twenty years younger than Mrs Gordon and thus, the Reverend conjectured, seduced in his early manhood to serve the wicked lusts of that already aging witch, was hale and hearty, although even his middle age had long passed by. He drank in the tavern on Saturday nights and visited the bordello, even at his great age a slave to his lusts. Early in the morning on a bright day in mid August, the two of them would climb into the old man’s fishing boat and sail up river. They returned two days later.<br /><br />Things can happen in the wilderness, unplanned for things like snakes and panthers and swamps. People thus taken were seldom found. They were devoured by wild animals, eaten by insects and their bones buried under dense vegetation. They were seldom searched for. The wilderness is far too dangerous for the townsfolk to venture into it and the wild men up river could not care less if the forest claims fools who wander into it. In the second week of August the Reverend made a great show of leaving town to visit a city down river for a Revival. His congregation saw him off at the pier, shouting prayers and exhortations at him as he sailed away.<br /><br />The Reverend, however, did not go to the Revival. Instead at the next village he disembarked and walked back along the riverbank opposite the town. When he reached a small, uninhabited fishing shack he went in and laid out the few things he brought with him for his vigil. The shack had a window looking out on the river where he could see the little summer pier where Mrs Gordon’s friend tied up his boat.<br /><br />Two days later the old lady and her fisherman friend came down to the boat. It was early morning, not long after first light. At first the Reverend was unsure it was them but when he looked through the binoculars lent him by a devout member of the congregation he could see them clear as day. He threw his things into his bag and rushed down to the pier. When the two wicked ones sailed up the river and around the first bend, he followed.<br /><br />The Reverend was a reasonably good sailor. As a boy he had accompanied his brothers fishing and even when he had been ‘called’ and afterward, he sailed for the exercise during the summer. But the old man was an expert. He slipped from one side of the river to another seeking always the least current and the best advantage of the wind as other men would weave unconsciously around the potholes in a road they were walking. The Reverend could not make enough headway to catch sight of them and, after three hours he grew afraid they had slipped off the river without his knowing and he would never find them. However, five hours or so after he had started out, he caught a flash of white in the leaves on the bank, and when he sailed in to take a look it was the old man’s boat pulled into the bushes and tied to a tree. There was a trail of footsteps leading off into the forest.<br /><br />The Reverend packed a small bag containing water, a day’s food and a compass. He took a careful reading before he started out. On his shoulder he balanced a double barrel shotgun. He began his walk up the trail in a cheerful mood. God will not be mocked he said to himself. He abides; He waits his time but He will not be mocked.<br /><br />Many hours later, long after the Reverend had thought he would overtake the two old people who surely could not travel as fast as a man barely into his forties like himself, dark began to fall. This filled the Reverend with a fear so papable that it seemed to rise up from the earth itself and seize his entrails in an icy grip. He had never spent a night in the forest. Town’s people never did. In a party, for a lark, they might journey in for a short distance and then return to the safety of the riverbank. Even when he was a boy he had never gone into the forest for more than a few hundred yards. And now here he was, perhaps ten miles in with no sighting of the ones he was following and dark coming down.<br /><br />He became so afraid his teeth started to chatter. Around him was thick green vegetation alive with things spawned of the devil. The thought of it made his skin crawl and his bowels loosen. There were the wild cries of birds and animals, no doubt greeting with joy the coming reign of darkness. Perhaps a mile away, but so near for such fleet creatures, came the screech of a big cat. He began to hyperventilate. To calm himself he stopped and sat down on a fallen log. He looked around him. He was in a small clearing and beside him was a tall tree. He decided to climb the tree and spend the night as far up as he could go with the barrel of his gun aimed downward.<br /><br />A miserable night. He was so weary he caught himself twice almost falling asleep and thus out of the tree. He splashed most of his remaining water on his face. He slapped himself across the cheeks. He shouted out all the prayers he could remember. In his anguish he called for God to help him and he did for a short time later dawn arrived and in no time the clearing below him was bathed in enough light for him to distinguish the bushes, a few rocks jutting out of the path and at the foot of the tree the night black cat peering up at him through the leaves. The Reverend was so surprised and so terrified that he didn’t bring his gun to bear but there was no need. The cat looked at him speculatively for a few moments and then suddenly turned and slipped into the trees. He ate the rest of the food in his bag and climbed down the tree.<br /><br />The Reverend decided that he would have to return to the riverbank. Out of food and almost out of water, to continue into the forest would mean his certain death and the thought of another night in the forest listening to its hellish sounds, the slitherings, the creakings, the cries, the sudden rushing and screechings, was too much to bear. He got out his compass and took a reading even though it was unnecessary for he could clearly see the trail leading back to the bank. He started off.<br /><br />People unused to the forest must beware. A trail may appear clear and unmistakable but a few moments of inattention, a slight swerving off its central line and poof one is in the midst of the unmarked wilderness. A slight panic and a rushing about in desperate, demanding search, almost always leads to becoming lost. The Reverend became lost. He also became so terrified of being lost, so horrified of the possibility of another night in the forest, he screeched in frustration and distraught fell onto the ground, most unwisely for he crushed down a bush where one of those poisonous green snakes was climbing up to sun itself, one of those snakes with two golden stripes, which, understandably, assuming it was being attacked, bit him in the nearest warm spot available – the big artery on the right side of his neck. As everyone knows this snake’s bite is deadly anywhere on the body but with the poison injected directly into this artery the poor man was dead in a matter of moments. He barely had time to remind God he was dying in his service.<br /><br />Two hours latter Mrs. Gordon and the old man found the body. It was terrible how even in that short time the poison and the heat had bloated it almost past recognition.<br /><br />“Well,” said Mrs Gordon. The old man picked up the shotgun at the Reverend’s side and tied it onto his backpack.<br /><br />When they reached the riverbank some three hours later, for these two were far more efficient forest travelers than the Reverend, they towed the Reverend’s boat out into the river, stove in the bottom and let it sink. When the last bubbles had broken on the surface, the old man turned his boat downriver while Mrs Gordon raised the sail into the slight breeze which, along with the current, pushed them downriver with their boatload of plants in a small matter of two hours.<br /><br />Mrs. Gordon made the old man throw the gun into the river. “You can’t be sure it has no markings,” she said. After opening his mouth to argue the old man thought again, closed it and tossed the gun overboard where it twinkled once in the bright sunlight and then was gone.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-10735448275883537282012-10-13T17:24:00.001-07:002012-10-13T17:24:08.904-07:00Excerpt From On the River Eg II <br /><br />……1<br /><br /><br />The Imperial Army entered the Nia Valley through trails winding among the hills from the west. The planners were very good and the timing exact. On a night of full moon, when its round, lustrous disc was at the meridian, horse units, riding at a gallop to close the last few miles, fell upon the Nia Capital. They surrounded its outskirts in a series of well executed movements and then, when the main body caught up and the first light of day glimmered above the eastern hills, they started moving into the suburbs, slaughtering and burning as they went. They butchered everyone, for the order was to butcher everyone and the Imperial Army always obeyed orders. As the slaughterers went about their work, troops with wagons came behind loading the corpses to be carried to the riverbank and tossed into the water.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The Nia had been asked to sign a treaty with the Imperial government involving a garrison, tributes of sheep and metals, and hostages. The Nia had refused. This refusal put the Emperor into a terrible mood for the very day he heard of it he received intelligence that a numerous and warlike people called the Rechyai had conquered the northern section of the River Eg and were soon to move out onto the plain. Two things threatening the Empire learned of in a single day pushed him over the top, although if the truth be told it did not take much to push him over the top. He once ordered the killing of several thousand in a local marketplace because he heard that one of its merchants had sold a cloak made of &nbsp;purple cloth, &nbsp;a color reserved for his Royal Person.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;As well as ordering a punitive expedition the Emperor also ordered that Storytellers accompany the Army. Their task was to compose an Epic poem or two about the heroic exploits of the Imperial troops and then later to spread out through the far provinces of the Empire reciting it in marketplaces and taverns. Thus the butchery of the Nia would act as an object lesson for the outer tribes, reminding them it was wise to obey the Imperial will.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The General of the Imperial Army was a small man with a snow-white beard. The dazzling effect of his beard was accentuated by the fact that his hair was dyed a bright orange for this was the fashion of the court at that time. Perhaps because he realized there was too great a contrast between his beard and his hair, he wore on his head and enormous hat resembling a gigantic loaf of bread pouring over the sides of far too small a pan. The hat, like the beard, was white but a little off color, a kind of beige. After many hours of looking into the mirrors (he owned thirty nine of them) in his ancestral home and still further hours asking the opinions of his concubines, he decided that the hat, its color complementing that of his beard and smothering with its folds most of his orange hair, created the desired effect. The effect he was looking for was one of splendid, dashing, heroic glory.<br /><br />1 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Rising from the helmet strapped onto the head of the charger the General was riding was a single plume made up of the feathers of many birds, resplendent and multi colored. Below, on the breast plate of the charger and, as well, on his own breastplate in a smaller version, was the coat of arms which the Emperor had granted him after his second Triumph. This was a hideous image of a man impaled upon a stake and writhing in agony.<br /><br />&nbsp; It was a hot day and the work of butchery was tiring and tedious. It took all day for the Imperial troops to work their way into the center of town. The river was filled with bodies and the streets red with blood. There was little resistance. The Nia warriors were south raiding tribes on the borders of their territory. The few young women and small boys who attacked the troops were soon cut down. When the forward horse units reached the center of town they were pushing before them a crowd of Nia elders. When they reached the main square other troops had already set up sharpened stakes in a line along the river. The elders were stripped and beaten and then impaled on the stakes. There were two hundred and thirty-three of them and, for the first while before loss of blood weakened them, the screams and screeches of these old men were deafening.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The Storytellers (in the Falconian Empire a special sect which wore badges to indicate their office and had a school in the capital where they were taught their trade as well as a mystical love and devotion to the Emperor) were ordered to stretch themselves out in a line (there were twenty –five present) and sit before these sufferers. They were to listen carefully to their shrieks and moans and thus, according to both General and Emperor, bring to their literary compositions the power and energy of harsh and strident reality. Most of the Storytellers found this to be difficult. They were men and women of words and ideas and they found this terrible cruelty almost overwhelming. Yet they sat and watched for they knew the General was not adverse to impaling Storytellers who showed weakness and misguided compassion. He had done so before.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;One of the Storytellers, a man named Nawan, a member of the sect and an Imperial citizen but half Nia himself through his mother, actually approached the victims, shouting Imperial slogans up into their twisted faces. Of course they barely heard him for their sufferings were terrible, their eardrums bursting. Such was his fervor and fury that the General himself noted his actions and instructed one of his officers to find out the man’s name so that he could be rewarded later with one of the Emperor’s low ranking metals reserved for Storytellers. However, if he knew what Nawan was up to he would have done otherwise.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Tied up in a harness beneath his voluminous cloak Nawan concealed a sheep’s bladder filled with a strong narcotic, a small amount of which would stop a man’s breathing.<br /><br />2<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Attached to one end was a hollow needle which he could easily bring out through the opening in his cloak. When he came in close to scream and spit in fury at the impaled man he leaned against his thigh and injected him with this potion. The victims were so engrossed in other more horrible pains they did not notice the jab but within ten or fifteen minutes they were dead. Nawan administered his potion of death strategically to protect himself. He walked the whole line abusing each in turn but choosing only every tenth man for injection. By the time he came to the end of the line, exhausted by his shouting, almost unable to speak, he had brought to twenty-three men his kiss of death. &nbsp; <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Several hours after the impaling the General rode from his place at the side of the square surrounded by his subalterns, all brightly uniformed young men, who, as they remained away from and above the killing on their horses, looked as though they had just turned out for a fancy dress parade. They were all from noble families and carried on one side of their breastplate the Emperor’s coat of arms, on the other that of their own house. As this processional made its way across the square, the soldiers created for it a path much as the magician in the Falconian fable created a path across a raging river. As the processional passed, on each side the packed and hysterical soldiers shouted themselves hoarse, crying out from the dying embers of their bloodlust for their victorious General. He graciously waved back and even, once or twice, in a sly, ironic fashion, smiled.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the General came up to the line of the impaled his officers moved off to either side. He was draped by a servant in a hide cloak which covered his front and handed a long sword, razor sharp. With this he proceeded to cut off the heads of the first ten men in the line of the impaled. With each beheading his troops shouted in delirious joy and his subalterns politely clapped. When he was done he handed the sword to his chief of staff. The subalterns jostled with their horses to be in line to cut off a few heads of their own. Afterwards the bodies of the victims were removed from the stakes and thrown into the river. They were replaced by the heads, the features frozen by their sufferings into masks of agony. The General ordered these to remain until they were reduced by rot, insects and birds to bare skulls. Then they were to be taken down, smashed with hammers and thrown into the river.<br /><br />&nbsp; One of the Falconian Storytellers sitting crosslegged on the ground before the impaled elders, was a young woman of twenty-one. Her name was Fli and she had just received her First Degree Certificate from the Institute in the Imperial Capital, Hawan. Although she had heard stories of such things and had been taught at the Institute that the Glory of the Emperor required many grim practices she was truly devastated. It is one thing to listen and approve of ideas, words, ideologies and another to witness up close unbelievably cruel depravity. When the soldiers had lifted the naked old men up and jammed them down on the sharpened stakes the entire structure of her inner world was<br /><br />3<br /><br /><br /><br />shattered in a single blow. Every thing she had been taught at the Institute was a lie. The purpose and significance of her life, which up until then had been sure and steady and lain out before her in a long, glorious shining road stretching off into the future, was cut off and she felt as if someone had suddenly removed all of her inner organs and replaced them with an iron nothingness. &nbsp;But she was a strong young woman and did not allow any of her true thoughts to show on her face. She arranged her features in a mask of cool stoicism and looked upon these suffering and screaming men as if they were so many fish thrown by fishermen to die flopping on a sandy shore.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Nawan came down the line of the impaled, cursing and abusing the sufferers, her reaction was one of disgust. She knew Nawan from the Institute and was surprised for he had always seemed to her to be a thoughtful young man free of the brutal fanaticism of many of the students and here he was a screeching maniac, a point man in a world of raving lunatics. But when he came up to the man off to her left she saw what he did with his needle, not clearly for what he did was covered by his body and cloak but still she was sure by the movements of his body by the almost imperceptible pause in his stream of abuse that he was accomplishing something diametrically opposed to the dramatic role he was playing. She watched the impaled man she was sure Nawan had done something to as Nawan himself went on down the line. He was a man in his seventies, his face white with pain, his features distorted, his eyes staring off into a terror which could only end with a now deeply longed for death. Two minutes after Nawan was with him his writhings slowed down to a kind of weird rhythm. Four minutes and his face relaxed withdrawn somehow from the world of terror it had been in to become human again, to take in one last time the actualities which were about him, the soldiers, the Storytellers sitting before him, the cries of his fellow victims, perhaps even the smell of the river behind and the blue haze of the sky above. A minute later he reached up with both hands and closed his own eyes, very gently, employing his fingers in the most delicate way. Then he dropped his hands, slumped to one side, and stopped breathing.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the impaled man was gone Fli shifted her eyes to watch Nawan who had progressed down the line. She got up and walked to the end of the line and watched him from there. By the time he was finished and walked over to one of the water buckets to drink she was sure. Somehow he had drugged and delivered a kinder death to some of the victims. And here, in this world of mockery, sadism, and depraved hysteria his actions, perhaps because they were so weird, so out of synch, had gone undetected, other than by herself. Nawan sat not far from her and they both watched the closing act, the General with his deft beheadings, the bodies flung into the river, the heads placed upon the stakes. When it was over Nawan rose, shouldered his pack and started up the river bank to the north. Fli followed.<br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-67912254076975211472012-10-09T18:39:00.001-07:002012-10-09T18:39:58.284-07:00Infill Factory<br /><br />Infill Factory<br /><br /><br /><br />Working in an Infill factory was a difficult job for many but not so for Joseph. He had spent so many years in so many terrible places that to find himself in a warm building with a separate place to sleep and wash was almost unbelievable. Out of the 168 hours in a week he was required to work only 98 thereby leaving him, after sleep, a glorious 14 hours leisure time, more if he slept less than eight hours a day. The first year of his employment he woke every morning into a strong bath of gratitude for his new situation. Of course, after a few years, this feeling of gratitude had diminished but not entirely. Now, rather than manifesting itself in a feeling of physical effervescence as it once did, it had become a quiet surety of place and comfort.<br /><br />InFill factories were automated. The Big Screen, a six by six screen in a room full of mess and wires, controlled the processes. When he is on shift this is where you will find Joseph, seated on a milk crate, its checkered holes filled in and softened by a filthy cushion. Workers in InFill factories were not allowed to sit, thus the milk crate. It brought Joseph, in a seated position, below the level of the observation camera. The computer which monitored information on operators seemed to deal only with positive information. That Joseph was nowhere to be seen did not seem to matter.<br /><br />An InFill factory is a noisy place. It is composed completely of metal and the movement of the machinery, the vibration of the great maze of parts and processes, create a constant buzzing hum overridden now and again by violent screeches and the blowing out of pressure horns. It took Joseph some time to get use to all this. He had spent much of his life outside in the wilderness, or near wilderness, where there was quiet - sometimes deep, deep quiet. But after a while the noise became background just as once the quiet of the wilderness was background. He even began to like the noise in the same way a mother might grow to enjoy the racket of her bickering brood.<br /><br />There were deliveries to the factory at the back but Joseph had nothing to do with them. Computer operated machinery brought whatever and computer operated machinery unloaded it. He had never been in the back. Apparently, at least on the odd occasion, a technician came and fixed, installed or adjusted things. Or at least, Joseph thought, they must, for otherwise how would things go on working year after year? All that jiggling and banging would surely throw things out of whack. Yet, then again, possibly there was no need. Perhaps this section of the factory had cybernetic maintenance. &nbsp;Perhaps there were little fixit, maintenance robots built into each machine which went to work as soon as they closed down for the night. But then who fixed the fixit robots? Maybe they fixed themselves. Maybe they were like the human body which, at least in many cases, fixes itself.<br /><br />Once a month a small door opened on the wall adjoining the delivery area and ninety frozen meals were dropped into a waiting basket. Joseph pushed the wheeled basket into a room close by and stored them in a freezer. There was no signage on the meals so at first Joseph had to guess what was what but he quickly came to recognize the shapes of lunch, breakfast and dinner. Breakfast was three eggs, four strips of bacon, two toast and hash browns. Lunch was two grilled cheese sandwiches with coleslaw and pickles. Dinner was pork chops, beef steak or chicken drumsticks. A cup of fruit was attached to the dinners by a flap of plastic wrap. These meals were composed of excellent materials and quick frozen in such a ways that texture and taste were captured handsomely. Granted the breakfast toast was limp but he resurrected it somewhat by leaving it for ten minutes on the housing of a hot machine. Besides the frozen dinners there was a bag of dried apples and apricots. These he boiled on a hotplate in the control room. They were very tasty.<br /><br />Before he came to the factory Joseph lived in a village some miles up river. The factory, of course, was on a river. All factories were on rivers for otherwise where would they dump their waste? Why have expensive, computer operated machines come to carry away the waste when the river did it for free? Joseph thought his old home was upstream on the river the factory was on but he wasn’t sure. It was some river, of course it had to be some river, but if it was this one exactly, who knows?<br /><br />He had lived there in a village of fishermen. He didn’t fish himself but built wooden furniture. In the summer it was a good life but in the winter food was scarce and many people starved or sickened. So when the factory recruiters came he signed up right away. A warm place to live and food as regular as clockwork, sounded to him like a perfect dream. Then they were on an air transporter traveling all night &nbsp;and then at the factory.<br /><br />“Do I get a vacation?” Joseph asked the recruiter before he left.<br /><br />“No,” the man said.<br /><br />“What does the factory make?”<br /><br />“None of your business.”<br /><br />Three years after Joseph still didn’t know what the factory made. Just as deliveries were at the rear, shipping was at the front. Here computer operated trucks came and took something away but Joseph had no access to this section of the building. At first he was curious but after a while he ceased caring what the factory made. What did it matter? It was warm. It provided him with food and shelter. Whether it made bombs or plastic plates didn’t really matter. Besides, the recruiter had told him it was ‘none of his business’ in a tone clearly informing him it was better if he didn’t know. It was the kind of knowledge better not to have.<br /><br />His ignorance was abetted by his self-sufficiency. He had spent years alone in the wilderness and for the first three years of living in the factory he spoke with not a single soul. If he opened the door onto the side alley and stepped out onto the small balcony he could look down the hill onto the town below. It was a rough looking place as ugly as the scarred cement walls of the factory and designed, as it was, bare bones functional. The buildings were of unpainted logs cut from the forest. They were scattered about as if a child had thrown his box of blocks across a section of his playing yard. The streets were gravel, deeply rutted in summer, frozen solid in winter. There were no street lights. There were no public buildings. The buildings ran for a kilometer along the river and then sputtered out into the forest beyond. Around him, on the hill the factory was built on, like raisons in a loaf of rising bread, were other factories, some smaller than his, others bigger. There were perhaps two dozen in total. Directly down from the hill on the riverbank were three long Jetties jutting out into the river at an angle pointing downstream. These were the factory piers.<br /><br />During his first three years Joseph never left the premises. He sometimes felt a need for human company but he did not act on it. So much of his energy was taken by his long hours of watching the Big Screen and doing it’s bidding. “Go to 4A and replace assessment valve, Part #260-456” would suddenly come onto the screen in flashing bold blue letters. Joseph would replace the valve and come back to the screen. “Order 70342734 completed” would be flashing, then, “Pump FGHTYU-21 transfer column about to come loose from clamp. Adjust. Replace clamp, Part # 260-4567A.” Off he went again, and so on for fourteen hours a day. There were times when the Big Screen gave no orders for hours on end but these were infrequent. Often he ran the whole day and fell into bed at night so tired he was asleep almost immediately.<br /><br />But after two years he had learned to work the order system so that he wasn’t so harried. He would take a piece from a replacement part kit, discard it and claim the kit incomplete. This threw the Big Screen into a searching frenzy through its digital records until it came up with a part number for the missing piece. While it was doing this Joseph sat on his milk crate and had a cup of coffee and read his book.<br /><br />One month after he began occasionally using this strategy, a message appeared on the screen headlined, ‘Manager Inquiry’, short for the boss is asking - “Why so many missing pieces replacement part inventory should not be answer immediately.”<br /><br />“Don’t know,” typed Joseph. “Do not supply part packages thus have no control over quality.”<br /><br />“Manager Inquiry” popped up again. “Should be only 1.3% defective packaging inventory. Last month 6.7. Unsatisfactory read disciplinary code 3602-7991.”<br /><br />A side bar gave him the complete 3602-7991 – “Operators neglectful of or damaging to company property will be food ration reduced, incarcerated in a penal institution, forcefully psychologized or eliminated at the discretion of the appropriate officers of the company. In all cases year credits are unrealizable either by the Operator or his next of kin.”<br /><br />“Fuck you!” Joseph said under his breath but he kept his face neutral for he was standing and thus on camera.<br /><br />Manager Inquiry – Answer?<br /><br />Joseph – A blip?<br /><br />“Possible,” said Manager Inquiry. “Tracker app applies. Work diligently! Respect company property! &nbsp; <br />True, faithful and obedient service is its own reward!”<br /><br />Joseph was not a dumb man. After being given this information he calculated the number needed to stay near 1.6. He upped this so he would be between 1.6 and 2%. This and a personal program to replace certain valves, switches, etc. which needed regular replacement while he was already working on a unit started playing dividends in a less frenetic work pace.<br /><br />One day, on an early summer morning, he sat out on the balcony and looked down on the little town. He could see a few people moving about and a sailboat moving slowly up river. On one of the company jetties there were what looked like two young boys, fishing. When he lived up river he had been a devoted fisherman partly because he loved to fish, partly for food. He once lived with a woman, who later died of dysentery, on an island in the river for two years. They ate very well for he caught fish all year round (cutting a hole in the ice during the winter) and she was an excellent gardener and fish smoker. The food delivered every month never included fish.<br /><br />One day he decided he would cut a pole from the trees at the bottom of the hill and go fishing. He had not left the factory for three years two months.<br /><br />Early morning and evenings are the best time for fishing. When work ended there was still two hours of daylight and carrying with him a bag of fishing gear he had found in his things, he started off down the hill. When he reached the trees he found an excellent pole and cut it from the tree. When he reached the jetty the boys had been fishing on (the middle one) he baited his line with a piece of stinking cheese and tossed it into the river. He caught six fish that evening. One he ate before going to bed. The other five he placed in separate water filled bags and put in the freezer. After that he went fishing twice a week and ate fish once a day, some days twice.<br /><br />The company had a money script which it claimed was universally accepted but this was untrue. The farther one got from the company towns the more discounted the script became until when you came to a certain point people would not accept it at all. What they wanted was the old aluminum coins, some of them worn down to the point where you could no longer read the writing – weird phrases left over from the old empire. One evening Joseph met an old man on the pier who offered three of these old coins for a pump valve casket kit. Three days later Joseph brought him the kit but took only one of the coins in payment. Three were too many.<br /><br />The old man didn’t fish but he liked to sit on the pier and watch other people fish and think his own thoughts. He was a silent man. He spoke only when spoken to and then only what was strictly necessary to answer the enquiry. Over some time Joseph got the old man to tell him what the factory made, or, to be more accurate, grew. The answer surprised him somewhat but not entirely. Even people who lived in the wilderness had heard of such things in a filtered, distorted sort of way.<br /><br />“Who are they for?” he asked the old man.<br /><br />“Them,” said the old man, jabbing a not very clean thumb downriver.<br /><br />“And who is them?” Joseph asked.<br /><br />“The ones in the Big City of course,” said the old man.<br /><br />“But the Big Screen says there is no Big City. It says all stories about the Big City are mythical rather than real.”<br /><br />&nbsp;“Ha!” said the old man. “That’s what they want you to think. If that were so then where do these factories come from and who are they making things for?”<br /><br />“Well,” said Joseph, “for everybody all over the world.”<br /><br />“Well that too,” said the old man, “but they also live in big cities.”<br /><br />That was all he could get from the old man that day. He suddenly clammed up and sat staring at the river as if asking it for forgiveness for abandoning his laconic habits.<br /><br />Two days later the Big Screen flashed another ‘Manager Enquiry’ &nbsp;- “All Operators subject to the Seditious Conversations law promulgated Second Infill Factory Peace and Good Order Convention. Is the Operator aware of content?”<br /><br />“No,” Joseph typed.<br /><br />A black bordered section of text suddenly appeared on the screen. “No Operator or any other employee or officer or family member of such or indeed person of any description, will engage in conversations injurious to the interests of the company. Failure to comply will result in reduction of food ration, incarceration in a penal institution, forced psychologizing or elimination depending upon seriousness of the offense as decided by the officers of the company who shall not be named in this document or any other for such a naming would be an infraction against the very injunction here cited. In all cases year credits are unrealizable by either the Operator or his next of kin.” After a moment or two Manager Enquiry asked – “Did the Operator read and understand?”<br /><br />“Yes,” Joseph typed.<br /><br />Manager Enquiry – “Then he will conduct himself in accordance with the law forthwith?”<br /><br />“Yes,” Joseph typed.<br /><br />Two days latter, when the old man came walking up the pier and sat on the deadman beside him, Joseph slipped him a note. “We can’t talk here. Is there a place we could meet away from the piers?”<br />&nbsp;it said but the old man, realizing the import of being slipped a note, stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. Three days later the old man approached him on the pier and, most uncharacteristically, embraced him as if he were a long lost brother. He slipped a note into Joseph’s pocket.<br /><br />Joseph read the note on the way up the hill to the factory. It was light enough to see his way but too dark to read so he slipped off the path into a small copse of trees and read the note by flashlight. “After fishing turn left off the pier and follow the road two hundred and thirty full paces. The cabin on the left overlooking the river is mine. On the porch will be a lantern turned down to a low flame.” Joseph lit the note with his lighter and let it burn to ash on the bare ground.<br /><br />The old man was seated at a table in the one room but, after making coffee on the gas burner, they went out onto the back verandah overlooking the river to drink it.<br /><br />It was mid summer and, after a very hot day, new air, cooler and accompanied by a light breeze, was moving in. The two men sat silent for some time, the relief of the cooler air, the gleam of the river under starlight, the rustle of the leaves in the overhanging trees more than enough to fill all the spaces between their sips of coffee. After what seemed many hours but was in reality only ten or fifteen minutes, Joseph asked in a thin voice which seemed so vulnerable, so human in the midst of the lush, velvet surroundings they found themselves in, “Why do they do this?”<br /><br />“Because they are mad,” the old man answered. “Because they have lost their way.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-29782220017397062562012-08-26T20:00:00.003-07:002012-08-26T20:00:48.363-07:00<br /><br /><br />Making History<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Gregor lived in a house beside a vast, rambling abandoned factory. He lived there with his wife, an invalid who spent her days in a room on the second floor staring out the window at the horizon. A local girl came in three hours a day to care for her. At other times it was Gregor who answered the bell, or did not answer the bell, according to his mood. Mostly he answered the bell and the errands resulting from the answering were simple ones – two eggs fried and toast, a glass of orange juice, a trip to the library run by an old crone three fields away on the bank of the river. Occasionally he would be required to listen to his wife’s chronicle of aches and pains but he didn’t mind. When they were young she was beautiful, ravishing and he loved her with a great passion. Now they were old Gregor loved her in the way an old man loves his wife – a way having more to do with agape than eros.<br /><br />The factory had once processed sugar beets. Financiers had decided they could buy sugar &nbsp;cheaper from another country. The old beast – evil smelling and belching clouds of stench laden air - had limped on for a decade or two and then slowly ground to a halt. Afterward neighborhood boys had occupied it as their fort and castle for a generation but now even they were gone – off to join the army or dig in the mines or get drunk in seaports and sleep in alleys. Bats slept their days away in the lacing of the high roof girders but other than they and insects who live everywhere, no living beings entered the building, excepting Gregor.<br /><br />The girl came at seven in the morning and as soon as she came into the house Gregor, after a polite good morning, left through the same door she had entered and walked across the yard into the front door of the factory. This led him onto the main floor, a vast area as long as a football field. After walking this, the hollow sounds of his footsteps hitting the concrete floor echoing off the walls and ceiling, he came to spiral stair made of dark, rusting metal. This he climbed slowly for it rose four stories and there were many stairs. At the top there was a foyer leading into a large room, once the office of the factory manager. The rest of the building was crumbling to ruin but oddly enough, because it was under a section of roof covered with steel still proof against the snow and rain, the office was in good shape. The outer walls were concrete, then insulation, a surprising amount for the construction techniques of its day, and then wood paneling, peeling in a few spots but essentially sound. The floor was covered with linoleum, worn and in the corners peeling back but still serviceable. The only furniture was a gigantic oak desk sitting in the very center of the room. The floor was clean and the corners free from cobwebs. In one corner were a mop, a pail, a broom and a dustpan.<br /><br />Each morning Gregor walked directly to the desk, sat down in its chair and began to work. And what would an old man be doing working at a desk in an abandoned factory, you might ask. He was writing a history. Most likely it was a history which no one but himself and a few friends would read but Gregor was of the opinion who read it or who didn’t read it was of no matter. It was necessary that he have something to do, otherwise he would go mad. Even if the writing of his history was only an avoidance of madness then that would be enough.<br /><br />At seven fifteen in the morning the sun poured in a long bank of windows on the east wall so there was no necessity for electric lights which was good for there were none. Sometimes in the evenings when his wife had gone to sleep for the night he came back carrying with him two storm lanterns. These provided more than enough light for night work and Gregor had a love for the yellowish light they produced. But the supply of kerosene was limited so he could not come at night as often as he would have wished. Beside the desk were three tall wood filing cabinets jammed with papers. The desk held a computer, covered when Gregor was not there by two layers of plastic sheeting. He did not trust the roof.<br /><br />Gregor had money and not the script issued by the present regime which gave you the right to stand in long lineups, an activity rewarded in the end with things you did not want but had no choice but to take unless you wanted to starve – half rotted cabbages, mouldy rice, bread so hard it would break the teeth of a rat. Until the authorities shot him through the head’ Gregor’s son was a successful thief. Besides being a successful thief he was a careful man who saved a portion of his profits in the form of small gold ingots, one quarter of an ounce a piece. Several plastic buckets of these ingots, wrapped in plastic, were hidden in secret places only Gregor knew. Twice a year he took some out and traded them for script on the black market. The amounts of script he was given for the gold enabled him to buy on the black market – food, clothing, tools, computer gear, paper, etc.<br /><br />What kind of a history was Gregor writing? A dangerous kind or at least if you were associated with the government you would consider it dangerous, not because it was anti government in any narrow sense but because it considered governments to be small islands of human effort floating upon a great sea of human energy. He was writing a history which included as many things about the human beings as possible. And what was his training? He didn’t have any which meant, of course, that he was the perfect person to write such a history. There were official historians who worked in an old building in the center of the nearby city, but they were bought and paid for. They often spent a lifetime ‘writing’ the official history of a small section of ‘historical events’ assigned them. The wise ones, by various subterfuges, managed to make sure their histories were not published in their lifetimes. The unwise were often arrested, tried and shot. It was not that the authorities objected to anything they said, especially since what they said was so guarded and obscure as to be incomprehensible, but that they said anything at all. Reality was something created by the government and if this was so then a historian publishing was tantamount to treason. Treason was the catch all charge in those days. Even thieves were convicted of treason rather than stealing.<br /><br />When the present government took over power there remained remnants of the old elites which they systematically eliminated. This was the government language. They did not kill people, they eliminated them, a much more scientific and hygienic term denoting a passionless objectivity which did not exist. In actuality these people were killed by thugs and sadists who thoroughly enjoyed their work. After this period of wholesale slaughter, the government, very wisely if you have read Machiavelli, rounded up most of its thugs and sadists and killed or eliminated them. They were not the kind of people who would succeed at the next stage, that of ‘pacifying the people’ and they were not the kind who went off quietly into retirement. They were replaced by more moderate types who beat and tortured people only on the direct request of government ministers. This was heralded by the government as a return to ‘due process’ and trumpeted as a triumph in ‘the fight for the rights of the people’.<br /><br />But there were many of the old elites left and even some who had morphed from being an enemy of the people to being their tribune and protector. The later were to be found in government offices and on the whole to be avoided. The former lived quiet lives most often in the rural areas where they farmed and raised animals. They kept a low profile and the government, other than spying on them in a desultory sort of way, left them alone. These people were the source of most of Gregor’s information.<br /><br />Private vehicles were not allowed in or near the cities but some exceptions were made. By astute bribery Gregor recieved a permit for his motorcycle under the pretence that he used it to do Christian work in the outlying areas well known to be in need of an input of Christian energy, for they were, on the whole, wild, wooly and lawless. This, of course, was a fiction. He drove his motorcycle around the country all summer talking to people. &nbsp;In the fall he organized his recordings (he took no notes rather recording with a machine hidden in his clothing). Through the winter he added new chapters to his book. He had been doing this for twenty years. All of his informants knew he was recording but most thought it for an anecdotal history the compiling of which was a private pleasure. Only a few old friends knew the real scope of his project and he trusted them implicitly.<br /><br />As a cover, behind his house were two small barns housing sheep and goats. During the warm season these creatures roamed about grassy fields fending for themselves but in the winter they were brought in. Two hired men looked after them, slaughtered, made cheese and supplied the meat and cheese directly to a store for members of the government only. Officially Gregor did the work himself and there were no hired men. He made the monthly deliveries to the store himself and signed all receipts, bills of laden and other documents having to do with the business.<br /><br />Yet one September, five years into his project, he was paid a visit by an army officer, a young man of twenty-five. There were rumors the young man told him, that he was constructing a history. It was forbidden, the young man told him, for private citizens to write histories. Such things were reserved for the proper institutions funded and overseen by the government.<br /><br />No, no, Gregor replied, there was a misunderstanding. He knew very well it was forbidden to write histories and would not even dream of doing such a thing. Probably there was some misunderstanding of his summer activities. He went about the countryside on his motorbike doing good work among the rural people using some small amounts of money raised among his good hearted neighbors. This work involved talking to people in the villages, sometimes in private homes, sometimes in Inns and Hotels. Perhaps people watching this activity from the outside misconstrued what he was actually doing.<br /><br />Ah, said the young man, this was indeed possible but he had in a dossier at his office a copy of a report that Gregor was overheard in a certain Inn in a certain village, speaking of politics before the Great Change and the young man wondered if he was doing Christian work what he was doing speaking in this manner.<br /><br />Unless he was given the village and the Inn and the date then Gregor found it impossible to answer such a question in detail but in general he was an old man often talking to old men and it was only natural that they occasionally spoke of events which occurred in their youth. He realized that the officer, being a very young man, would have no direct experience of this yet if he consulted his memories of the conversations of his uncles and aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers, he would see that what Gregor was saying was true. But this kind of talk about the past indulged in by the older generation was very different than the construction of histories, very different indeed. Rather it was the sharing of personal reminiscences from the past, the most natural thing in the world for those who actually lived the sad days before the Great Change.<br /><br />After a few similar exchanges the young officer left, leaving behind him a copy of the regulations dealing with historical public discourse. Gregor thanked him profusely saying that although he knew the general drift of the law he had never seen a copy of the regulations and would treasure them dearly. Perhaps, he said, the next year before going off on his rounds the officer would like him to submit an itinerary but the officer said this would be unnecessary and made a joke about the filing cabinets already being filled to bursting at which they both laughed, Gregor perhaps a little too robustly.<br /><br />When the officer left Gregor’s wife’s bell rang and, as it was afternoon and the girl gone, he went upstairs to see what she wanted.<br /><br />“Who was that?” she asked when he came into the room.<br /><br />“Just a friend,” replied Gregor.<br /><br />“Do you think I’m so dumb that I can’t look out the window and see the official car in front of the house?” his wife asked.<br /><br />“Ah. Well, I didn’t want to disturb you, dear. It was an officer from some Directorate or other who came to explain the new rules for pig marketing. Apparently the Directorate is concerned piglets are being sold on the black market and shipped to the north where it is against the law to have pigs. I, of course, informed him that no such thing was going on here. We are the most law abiding farm in the whole district I told him, which is true. All of our piglets are accounted for and grow to slaughtering size here on the farm and the meat delivered to the proper store as is required and expected.”<br /><br />“Then why did the car have on the door The Ministry of Information?” his wife asked.<br /><br />“Because it is that institution which deals with providing the public with all information, including that concerning pigs.”<br /><br />His wife looked suspicious but as she had no knowledge to contradict what he said she said nothing.<br /><br />“Please get me a glass of orange juice,” she said.<br /><br />“Of course,” said Gregor and he went off down the stairs.<br /><br />It was after this visit by the officer that Gregor moved all his files, etc out of the house into the old factory. He also took the precaution of creating a code for his book and even created a computer program which translated his prose into the code. After typing his summer recordings he translated them to code and destroyed both the recordings and the original prose.<br /><br />“You are becoming an paranoid,’ an old friend in a village one hundred miles to the north told him.<br /><br />“Perhaps,” Gregor replied, “but that young man was very intelligent and I don’t think he believed a single thing I told him.”<br /><br />This was true but as well as not believing a single thing Gregor told him, the young officer didn’t care that he was lying. In his experience everyone was lying. The file was a routine affair which was not expected to turn into an investigation and he saw no reason to make it otherwise. So what if the old bugger was writing a history? Who cares? Let him write all the histories he wanted. No one would publish them anyway and when he died the papers would be dumped into the garbage along with the rest of his personal effects. He had bigger fish to fry and they included building a base of people well disposed toward him. Some day the old bugger might be of use. Every year after his visit, Gregor received a Christmas card from the young officer. On the front was a picture of himself with his wife and three children.<br /><br />On the eve of the twenty-first year of writing his history Gregor’s wife died, of a heart attack, apparently, although it was unsure for there was no autopsy. Gregor found her one morning cold in the bed, her face arranged in repose as if she were sleeping. The death of her son was her death really. It was after that she took to her bed and never left the second floor. She was a maternal woman and when her only son died she had little to live for. There were no grandchildren. The daughter in law, after her husband’s shooting, moved away and they lost contact with her. Gregor was of little use to her, an old man who disliked personal reminiscing and seldom spoke a word excepting if they had to do &nbsp;with historical subjects. In the last ten years he had sat for an hour a day in her room in the afternoon but most of that had been spent in silence. When they did talk usually it was her wife speaking of her childhood in the province she came from far off to the east and Gregor listening.<br /><br />She was buried from the local church for she was a believer. The old neighbours who remembered her came and a smattering of relatives not too far off to make the ceremony. She was laid to rest in the churchyard on the left side of her son. When the time came Gregor would be buried on the other side. Gregor was surprised how much he missed her. He would wake in the morning and be halfway up the stairs before he realized she was gone. He dreamed of her when she was young and beautiful and they were making love. Sometimes, in the afternoons at the time he once visited her he would allow his mind to construct imaginary conversations with her. This always ended in his weeping and he would end this by lying down and taking a nap.<br /><br />Much of Gregor’s history had to do with gruesome events – massacres, torture, mass starvations, etc. When he gave chapters (digital copies in code with a separate decoder) they would often say to him after they had read it, “Why so gruesome? Why so tortured?”<br /><br />“Because so may died,” he would say, “and the ones surviving carry in their bones the memory of all that brutality. What do you want, stories of heroes?”<br /><br />This would insult his friends and he had few enough to begin without insulting them but in this he was relentless. It is often this way in the world – it is friends wanting to protect us who can do us more damage than the enemies who want to destroy us. Some of his friends dropped out of the readings and avoided him thereafter. He couldn’t blame them. The real possibility of being strung up in a jail cell and beaten to death was not something to be taken lightly. The pressure in families for its members to avoid anything implicating was enormous. Most of the friends he still had left he met in out of the way places, places they had a legitimate reason to be in, in other words an alibi. Gregor was sometimes followed as just about anyone was who moved about on a regular basis but he was an expert at detecting shadows (very easy for the most part for they were amateurish and lazy). His method of dealing with them was to veer off his planned itinerary and lead them on a merry goose chase through the outback using the tent and food he carried on the bike to avoid talking to anyone. After a day or two of his playing the lover of nature in mystic union with streams and forests, the followers would disappear. Sleeping in a cramped car and eating bread and cheese they bought along the way from farmers was not enjoyable to them.<br /><br />Twenty-five years after starting his project Gregor finished the first book. He envisioned three books but as he was already old and creaky and as it took him twenty-five years to complete the first he considered it unlikely he would finish more than a few chapters of the second. He was not discouraged by this but rather was happy he had managed to complete at least one book and would have, if lucky, time to do some work on the second.<br /><br />Then things changed completely.<br /><br />His Christmas card sending army officer raised a rebellion in the west of the country, succeeding in taking over all the western provinces and then moving on and taking the capital. Strangely there was little blood spilt in all this because the old guard had lost the support of the population and when the officer and his troops appeared before a town the local militia charged with defense would throw down their arms and join the uprising. When he arrived at the capital the rulers had deserted it in favor of melting into the rural areas and the officer led his forces through the main streets to the cheers of the populace.<br /><br />Two months later Gregor received a letter from M. Kafka. He knew M. Kafka in a sort of way as a friend of a friend of a friend. He admired his writings and occasionally would give a copy of one of his books to an old friend whom he knew would enjoy it.<br /><br />The letter asked for a copy of his history book. M. Kafka had backers both in the government and among private financiers and intended to publish it along with several other ‘new’ books of history. If Gregor wished the book would be published anonymously or under a pen name.<br /><br />Strangely this request threw Gregor into a terrible crisis. He had never thought such an offer to be even remotely possible and had always thought of his project as a kind of private solace. The possibility of it being published widely and read by many thousands astounded and flattered him but it also made him think deeply about exactly what this would mean. He no longer thought the facts of history, even when they had long been suppressed and distorted, could lead to a ‘freeing’ of anyone. He had come to the conclusion, as had the Greeks many years before, that the terrors of history were both cyclical and inevitable and could not be avoided by cerebral epiphanies, no matter how desirable and individually satisfying, among the intellectual elites. He had also came to the conclusion that all histories were ‘used’ by someone. In other words, leaving aside the odd bookworm reading an old history for his own pleasure, and the rippling effect that such a pleasure could have on the people around him, they were pushed by people who had a purpose in mind and that purpose had to do with authenticating a new ‘view’ which was the foyer of, the introduction to, a new tyranny.<br /><br />How he lamented that this offer had not come some ten years before when he was still possessed by the sureness of his historical intent! It was rumored that M. Kafka had connections to the new regime. It was said that the book would be published illegally but that those arrested by the authorities for doing so would be protected and used as a wedge to destroy the legitimacy of the judges, a pack of murdering gangsters if ever there was one. This would be a desirable effect thought Gregor but then there would be no shortage of books which could achieve it as well or even better than his history. M. Kafka’s own works would be a much better choice and since they were imaginative and mythological, they would be less open to the fermenting of a ‘new’ round of thought control which in turn could lead to a new round of demonizing and murdering. He realized what they would do with his book. He had lived too long to have illusions about the endless human capacity for vengeance, self-righteousness and self-justification. To tell the truth about the suffering of those now dead was a noble thing but to have that truth distorted to justify the visitation of more suffering upon the living was not worth it and he knew in his bones that this is exactly what would happen. No guessing, no apologetic, Pontius Pilate-like washing of the hands; he knew.<br /><br />It took Gregor two weeks to transfer all the files and computer paraphernalia to the old factory’s concrete floor. He was an old man and could work only an hour or so at a stretch. At the end, instead of carrying an armload of files down the spiral stair, he tied them tight with string and tossed them over the balcony and loaded them into the wheelbarrow at the bottom. He made a great pile in the center of the main floor.<br /><br />Gregor met in the early morning, one bright August day, with the two brothers who did the work on the farm.<br /><br />“I have made arrangements with the authorities (bribes in other words) for you to deliver the produce yourself and sign yourself,” he said. “They will not make difficulties. They pay for the last shipment when you make the next. They decide how much so you don’t have to worry about that. Cash the check at the bank leaving a small amount in the account and work with cash. That’s what every one does. Just keep a record of how much they give you and all the expenses. The tax bill goes to the bank and you pay it there. It’s not difficult. You just have to make sure you record things as they are paid in and out so you don’t get confused. The old records are in the office in the barn. If you get mixed up about something, consult them. There is a yellow file in the file drawer listing the gifts given to the people at the office. No cash excepting for the Director once a year. The rest are by the month in produce. With all these takeoffs it’s a wonder anyone in this country produces anything. But it is the way it works and if you are diligent in the payments you will have no trouble. Occasionally someone lower down tries to squeeze. Tell them you will see and then report it to the Director. He will take care of it.”<br /><br />“And your salary?” asked the older brother.<br /><br />“Split half of it between you and put the rest aside. I may contact you with an address to send it to and I may not. If you don’t hear from me then it is yours. As well, eventually I will make an arrangement to transfer the title to you. We will create a little fiction of a payment to me so the relatives cannot claim fraud. But we will have to see how things go generally before the details can be worked out.”<br /><br />That evening, after the brothers left, Gregor loaded the motorcycle trailer. Then he crossed the field to the factory, entered through the main door and walked to where the pile of files and computers were in the middle of the floor. He doused the base of the pile with gasoline and then threw a lighted match onto the gasoline soaked paper. Whoosh!<br /><br />Three years later the brothers received a notarized transfer of the farm’s title into their names. Included in the envelope was a copy of a fictitious receipt signed by Gregor for the sale price. He never sent an address for his half of the manager’s salary, so the brothers got to keep it. This was no doubt because the last of his dead son’s ingots, glued to the inside of the rear motorbike tire, was more than enough to keep him wherever he went and for however long he lived.<br /><br />There were rumors; there always are. But since Gregor contacted no one from his past life they were mere tales made up by those who like to pretend they are in the know.<br /><br />He died very far away in an obscure place living among people who measure time in millennia rather than historical epochs. He died peacefully and without the slightest regret. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-55665521687222757472012-08-19T08:49:00.003-07:002012-08-19T08:49:41.349-07:00Harry and Frederick<br /><br /><br />Harry and Frederick<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />He was a kind man, no doubt about that. He had a high forehead running into a collapsing hairline and it was wrinkled with concern.<br /><br />“Perhaps if you fill in a new 714-233?”<br /><br />“I already did that.”<br /><br />“With no results.”<br /><br />“With no results.”<br /><br />“Perhaps you could appeal.”<br /><br />“Filling in the new 714-233 and waiting meant the time for appeal on the original 714-233 elapsed. The regulations allow for an appeal only on the first 714-233. No appeal is allowed on the second.”<br /><br />“Dear, dear.”<br /><br />Harrington Bringwater was weary but he was used to being weary. It seemed to him that he had been weary for many, many years but as he was only twenty years of age then it could not have been that many. He thought of his grandmother who was eighty-three. If she had became weary at the age he was now she would have had sixty-three years of weariness. But he doubted that this was the case for grandmother even in her old age seemed a tireless woman. If she wasn’t in the garden digging she was in the kitchen cooking or on the porch knitting. Every stitch of clothing he wore was made by his grandmother, even his underwear. Underwear she made out of the better parts of old flannel shirts she bought at the second hand store. Winter underwear she double layered; summer underwear was only a single layer. Even then on hot days, like today, the summer underwear was warmish.<br /><br />“I could give you a food bank voucher,” said the man behind the desk.<br /><br />“That would be nice,” said Harrington.<br /><br />The man made out the voucher and Harrington left.<br /><br />He walked to the food bank rather than use the bus ticket the man gave him along with the voucher. The bus ticket would take you all the way across town and, if your errand was a quick one, back again. The walk to the food bank took only thirty-five minutes.<br /><br />Since it was Monday morning the food bank was almost empty but, unfortunately, so were the shelves. The woman at the front desk gave him the small box you were allowed to fill. But Harrington’s grandmother had taught him from the time he was a little boy what to choose, what to stay away from. Rice, flour, sugar, molasses, lard first. No boxes; no processed. They got their vegetables from Nan’s garden which was big enough to supply them all year, with the cold storage. Luckily that day there was bulk rice and lard so he loaded up mostly with these two. No sugar so he took two middling sized containers of molasses. When the woman at the front looked in his box she raised her eyebrows. Unless they knew him they always did. A young man his age usually took boxed junk – macaroni dinners, hamburger patties.<br /><br />The walk home with the box used to be tiring until he learned his trick with the two ropes. He cut holes in the cardboard with his jackknife, threaded a rope through on either side and slung the box onto his back as if it were a backpack. It took an hour to get home from the food bank. Halfway there he lowered the box to the ground and had a rest. The spot he chose was on the riverbank where the river slung itself east in a wide meander. Sitting here you could see across to the corn fields on the other side, fields surrounded with chain link fence topped with three rows of razor wire. Harrington often wondered why the razor wire. Everyone he knew, including himself, slipped through holes they cut in the fence at the very bottom where you were hidden by long grass. Every July and August since he was nine he and one of his pals made the trip four or five times a season bringing back bags of corn they ferried across the river in an ancient canoe. His grandmother frowned when she saw them in the porch the next morning. She was an ethical old woman but then one had to eat, ethical or not. She frowned but said nothing and when he came back the following evening the corn was gone, stored in the cold cellar in the basement.<br /><br />At one time people got jobs in the cornfields, hoeing and picking. But machines did all that now. The people who drove the machines were from the outside. They came for the work and then went away. None of the corn went to the local markets anymore. It was loaded onto boxcars and driven west where it was processed and then loaded onto ships and sent across the ocean. The Company who owned the cornfields nobody had ever heard of before. Some said it was owned by rich men in another country where the corn fetched high prices and there were whole buildings filled with agents ready to buy it. But not all the corn went this route. Sometimes the papers were filled with stories about corn thievery, not the penny ante kind he and his friends indulged in, but the derailing of whole trainloads with vehicles suddenly appearing and a small army of thieves emptying the cars. His Righteous Rigorousness threatened dire action. He said he would burn whole counties, hang the ringleaders but this was bluster for the most part because His Righteous Rigorousness hardly had a pot to piss in when it came to enforcing anything. His old tracked vehicles had engines whose pistons sloshed around like a spoon stirring gravy and even if he managed to patch up enough for a punishing expedition anyone in front of them disappeared like ghosts so there was no one to punish. Once, some years ago, when they burned empty houses, it so angered people that they dug holes in the roads and spent all night shooting at the trapped vehicles, ping ping, the bullets bouncing of the armored plates. This scared the daylights out of the soldiers who escaped on foot the next morning. When they came back two days later with bulldozers the vehicles were all gone. Not a single bolt or sparkplug remained - all cannibalized and carried off to God knows where. But this didn’t stop His Righteous Rigorousness from taking to the screen once a month, banging the oak table he was sitting at and shouting so loud spit flew out of his mouth like he were a human rainstorm.<br /><br />When he arrived at the house his grandmother was washing the front steps. She did this once a week excepting, of course in the winter when the water would freeze. She looked into his box and patted him on the head.<br /><br />“Good for you!” she said. He took the box into the kitchen and put the things away in the cupboards.<br /><br />Two of Harrington’s uncles lived in the house along with he and his grandmother. The uncles were simple. Even if there were jobs for them, which there wasn’t, they would not have been able to work. For them to do anything sustained they needed someone at their side telling them exactly what to do. But they were big and strong and did all the heavy work in the garden and around the house with their mother, Harrington’s grandmother, directing. They were kindly, gentle men but sometimes they did become difficult. Once in a while, Harry, the oldest, managed to buy a bottle of bootleg whiskey. When he was thoroughly soused he would sit up late on the back porch singing old love songs at the top of his voice, so loudly that no one for many houses around could sleep. If any one tried to stop him he would become violent which was a problem for he was very large and had tremendous strength. His mother, Harrington and the neighbors had learned, through trial and error, the best thing was to leave him be. He ran out of steam around two in the morning and stumbled off to bed. The next morning he apologized to everyone.<br /><br />“Don’t give me that!” his mother would say to him. “If you were really sorry then you would stay away from that rotgut booze.”<br /><br />However there were enough people around to listen sympathetically to his apologies that he spent the whole day going from house to house. The women would give him coffee and pie and Harry would do his best to explain to them how it seemed that he was taken over by another man when these things happened but he was sure that it would never happen again and so on. As they were kind and motherly women of good heart his hosts clucked sympathetically and gave him another piece of pie. Harrington thought Uncle Harry got two things out of his occasional bouts – firstly he got drunk and sang love songs which he dearly loved to do but was too embarrassed to sing when he was sober and secondly the next day he received pie and sympathy. Harrington did not begrudge him. A man who, because of his condition, had never had and never would have, sexual relations with a woman, had to have an outlet of some kind. Even God would not be so cruel as to deny him that.<br /><br />Frederick, the other Uncle, never got drunk and sang love songs. This was because he was an obsessive masturbator and his obsessive masturbation left him no energy to indulge in such goings on. Frederick had his own room on the second floor which in turn had a bed with creaky metal springs. No amount of lecturing from his mother had any effect whatsoever on the noisiness of his masturbation technique. Although Harrington had never actually seen his Uncle in the act, a fact for which he was grateful in the extreme, from the sounds which came from his room several times a day Frederick had no concept of quiet, mewing pleasure. The bed springs creaked so loudly it was hard to imagine that Frederick was accomplishing this act in his bed alone. They sounded so loudly, so piercingly that it seemed as if three or four people were involved thrashing about in a great fire of mindless pleasure. His arrival at ejaculation was accompanied by a rising crescendo of bear like grunts which one could easily hear at the very end of the garden in the back, some one hundred feet away from the house.<br /><br />When he was a young boy Harrington was mortally embarrassed by these daily gallops of Uncle Frederick. Adults would not mention them to a young boy but his fellow children brought them up in the eternal one upmanship of childhood, at least his enemies. But Harrington was a robust boy and by the time he was twelve no one would dare mention his Uncle’s activities in his presence. Among his intimate friends, however, those who were like members of the family, the occasional mention of Uncle Frederick’s romps was allowed, indeed even welcomed, as comic relief. Frederick himself never spoke of what he did in his room and his mother reached the point where she was accepted it as a great, unstoppable force of nature and ceased trying to reform him. Besides Frederick in the past few years (he was now fifty-five) had slowed down considerably so that now there were even occasional days in which the bedsprings did not sound at all and instead there came from Frederick’s room the sound of loud, bear like snoring.<br /><br />Form 714-233 was an application for government relief. Anyone could make one as long as they were eighteen or over and unemployed. However whether the application was accepted was another matter. This, as far as Harrington could make out, was entirely arbitrary. The rules said that it was a rigorous rational process and that it was as if the details were fed into a great omniscient computer which made an objective and Godlike determination but everyone knew this was untrue. The truth was that there were so many slots, so to speak, and when they were filled that was that. The available slots were taken up by people who had some advantage &nbsp;- someone inside who spoke for them, relatives with influence, etc. Perhaps twenty percent of the people who applied received. The rest were sent to an appeal which merely a formal second denial. No one was allowed to know who sat on the appeal board or indeed if there even was any such thing as an appeal board. Harrington suspected there wasn’t. The appeal board was a fiction, a bureaucratic placebo.<br /><br />Harrington did not mind this himself. If it were up to him he would make his way on his own. But he could steal so much and there were others to consider. His grandmother received a small pension but his Uncles were considered ‘undesirable’ and thus not eligible for any government funds. In fact in his last two speeches His Righteous Rigorousness had suggested that the government might soon place special taxes on people such as his Uncles who HRR considered to be ‘superfluous’ and a ‘hidden tax on successful production’. HRR said that the state had suffered long enough from the ‘invidious excursions’ of these ‘undesirable elements’ and the time may very well have arrived when they would be ‘incised from the political body’ as one would incise a useless growth from one’s own physical body thus protecting its health and vigor. HRR became incensed when he spoke of issues like this. His face reddened; his eyes became filled with aggressive fervor. He sometimes moved his hands about as if he were strangling someone or at least throttling and shaking them about.<br /><br />Harrington and his grandmother watched these speeches together. His Uncles were not allowed to watch for HRR scared them. They had a limited capacity to understand what he was saying but the aggression and frightening gestures were clear enough even for them. And Uncle Harry knew that he and Frederick were what HRR called ‘undesirable’. He had friends in the neighborhood who told him all about HRR.<br /><br />“Mother, he’s a bad man,” Harry said one day at the breakfast table.<br /><br />“Don’t talk about him, Harry, dear,” his mother replied. “Bad things happen to people who talk about him. Promise me you won’t.”<br /><br />Harry promised but a week later he was still calling HRR a bad man and his mother told him some of the nasty things which happened to people who did so and then he stopped. When Harry was gone Harrington said to his grandmother, “You scared the shit out of him, gran.”<br /><br />“Exactly,” replied his grandmother.<br /><br /><br />A year after this Harrington’s grandmother received a letter from the Directorate of Internal Hygiene. The letter said that she, as the legal guardian of ‘two of the unfit’, was required to attend at a certain address in one months time to register them with the Directorate. Failure to do so, the letter said, would bring ‘immediate enforcement activity’ which she would no doubt wish to avoid by complying.<br /><br />His grandmother showed the letter that night to Harrington. Fortunately Harrington, an astute and no nonsense lad, was ready or at least ready enough.<br /><br />“We’ll have to go,” he said.<br /><br />His grandmother didn’t put up a fuss as he thought she would. Eighty some years living in the same house meant far less to her than the safety of ‘her boys’.<br /><br />HRR was the power in the clusters as they were called, the large centers with remnants of productive capacity still hanging about them. But he could project his power outside the clusters only to a very small degree. Harrington had contacts in places to the north, which nominally paid taxes to the center but largely ran their own affairs. There were, even in these far places, a HRR administrator, etc. but he was essentially powerless and reliant on the tolerance of the local people for his survival. Survival is the word for many unwise HRR administrators who tried to enforce directives from the center had completely disappeared and were never seen again. ‘Bogged’ was the term used for these disappearances, presumably because the officials in question were weighted and dropped into one.<br /><br />“Where are we going?” Harry asked when they were on the boat sailing up river.<br /><br />“On a nice trip, dear,” his mother replied.<br /><br />“No bed, no bed,” Frederick said, a kind of chant he had taken up now and again ever since they left the little dock outside town.<br /><br />Harrington was seated in the stern with the boatman, a grizzled man who seemed to be able to see in the dark.<br /><br />“Mom will get you a bed when we get there Fred,” said Harry, “so be quiet and stop going on like that.” &nbsp;<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-23646238631057893422012-08-12T08:58:00.001-07:002012-08-12T08:58:46.416-07:00<br /><br /><br />Abomination<br /><br /><br /><br />The long black lines had appeared one morning and slowly worked their way across the far green of the prairie, moving from west to east. At first they seemed almost imaginary, perhaps even a malfunction in the Hibson’s eye - five or six of them moving steadily forward until they created uninterrupted streams from horizon to horizon. Then the five or six became ten or fifteen and then more until they filled in a broad river of black Hibson estimated to be miles across, a swath in which they completely obliterated all but their own colour as if they were a single strange, sinuous animal driving its dark body across a sea of green.<br /><br />“What on earth are they?” he asked the elder when he arrived back in the tiny village.<br /><br />“They are the beginning,” replied the elder and then, refusing to answer any more questions, sent him to work in the summer garden.<br /><br />“They will come from the east carrying with them the high mountain berries. Their devastation will be as a single devouring maw moving eastward. Death will be their marching call and they will spread it about them like an ink stain until the earth shrugs its shoulders and annihilates them and they become a memory, no more. True men will see them as an abomination, a stink. “Gaia,” they will cry out and Gaia will hear them. The green will devour them. Gaia will open herself and consume them as if she had suddenly become a giant mouth of grinding green.”<br /><br />This was the text the elder read before the evening meal. The younger men were astonished. They had read Devastations of course, for it, along with the entire body of the Sacred Text, was the basis for all learning in the community but they, along with their teachers, had thought it a metaphorical extravagance, a dark meditation from the time when the ancient teachers, in their search for learning, ingested drugs and drove themselves into the beyond by dreadful fasts and sensory deprivations. To have it quoted in the dining hall, at the end of a clear, delightful day of sunshine and soft breezes, was extraordinary.<br /><br />The next morning Hibson thought he would be again sent to the garden but no. He was told to climb onto his mountain pony and go off like he did every morning of the warm season searching and counting the high grazing sheep. Except that today he was given new instructions.<br /><br />“Bring them in dear brother,” the foreman told him. “In through the high pass where they will out of sight from the plain as soon as possible.”<br /><br />They sent four mounted brothers to accompany him. “Take the low trail to the edge and then herd them from the south,” said the foreman. “The elders want them gone by dark. Your packs have extra provisions. Don’t come back until the animals are all through the pass. Let there be a last man who goes back when the main body has been driven before you. If the stragglers run they must be shot. There must be none left on the face of the mountain.”<br /><br />“Why?” asked Hibson.<br /><br />“Because the evil ones will see them you dolt!” said the foreman. “ And what the evil ones see they lust after.”<br />&nbsp;<br />Try as they might it took them longer than one day to herd the sheep through the pass. Sheep are creatures of habit. The sun was high, the grasses long, the mornings without chill. That they were being driven from their traditional high pasture months before the usual time confused them. But the brothers rode hard, even shooting their pistols into the air until, by the end of the second day, the great bulk were through the pass and crossing the rocky ravines leading to the lower pastures in the north. Hinson sent his four companions to follow and herd while he turned back to search for stragglers. He drove for the edge and made it by nightfall. He camped in the lee of a giant boulder, and, after two long days riding, slept like a dead man until the hot sun roused him in the morning.<br /><br />“Do not show yourself!” the foreman had told him. “The evil ones can sense presence from hundreds of miles away and will come with sharp teeth to devour its flesh and blood. They are wild beasts. The cougar, compared to these, is a kind mother to all. Beware!”<br /><br />Taking his instructions to heart, Hibson snaked on his belly around the boulder until he came to a twisted shrub growing from a crumbling run of stone. He inched himself forward until, parting the leaves, he looked down onto the prairie. The black river had broadened. It stretched from east to west as far as he could see. It seemed to Hibson very strange that he could see how vast was its movement, how almost endless its parade, and yet he could not hear it. It made no sound at all; it was like a great beast stuck dumb. Its body was not all attached to the ground. Small specks flew above it like the birds of carrion the teachers claimed followed armies in the times of war and hatred. Eaters of the dead, the Text called them, devourers of souls.<br /><br />When he brought his glass to bear he could see the flying specks more clearly. They were strange creatures indeed, giant dragonflies flitting from one place to another above the heads of the great marching throng. &nbsp;Sometimes fire erupted from their bellies, blue and yellow fire. Clouds of smoke suddenly erupted from the earth. The dragonflies dove into these clouds more fire spitting from their bellies and then they suddenly rose and moved on. The dead lay on the ground; the living moved on. Sometimes the dragonflies landed. They sat on the ground, great wings partially folded while figures did things to their bellies and then they flew off once again.<br /><br />“They are of the Devastation. Brothers and sisters, listen. I tell the bold truth which rocks to the core. They are merciless; they have no heart; they revel in cruelty; they devour as the beasts devour. Gaia hates them. Gaia will crush them like a dog crushes bones.”<br /><br />Devastations, 6, 11. &nbsp;<br /><br />Yet Gaia didn’t seem to be crushing them right now. The broad river of the evil ones flowed in a seemingly unending torrent and above them the dragonflies flitted and spit &nbsp;fire. There were also crawling things like fast moving spiders with two mouths full of terrible revolving teeth smashing everything. They twisted and turned and destroyed in packs like mad dogs, cutting paths through the throngs. But there were not enough to change anything essential. A temporary stoppage, a brief scattering was all they could manage. When they moved on the throngs closed ranks as if they had never been. The dead were stripped. Those coming from behind trampled their bodies or tossed them out of the way into a hollow. Perhaps when darkness came they would be devoured thought Hibson.<br /><br />“Oh they are vicious snakes! In the darkness when they think Gaia is not watching, they devour their own. Oh how hideous they are Brothers and Sisters. They are like ten day carrion, foul and covered with bloated insects.”<br /><br />Devastations, 25, 11.<br /><br />Hibson could not bring himself to shoot the uncooperative stragglers. Instead he roped three mother yews and trailed them along behind him, lambs in turn following along behind the mothers. Occasionally small groups came from out of the tall grasses or from behind outcrops and joined the procession. By the time he reached the pass he had a herd of fifty or so. Hibson left his companions to guard the pass to prevent the sheep from retracing their steps and rode down into the village, reaching it on the fourth day.<br /><br /><br />“What did you see?” asked the foreman.<br /><br />“A great river of black moving from west to east,” Hibson replied.<br /><br />“Ninny! I know you have a glass.”<br /><br />“It is forbidden,” replied Hibson.<br /><br />“And so is fornication. Yet the village is filled with children. What did you see?”<br /><br />“Flying dragonflies shooting fire. Spiders with two mouths with great flat teeth grinding and crushing,” said Hibson.<br /><br />“They are, strictly speaking, not creatures at all,” said the foreman. “They are made of metal by servants of the dark, in a place now flooded by the sea. Gaia has arranged this in her anger and disgust at the abominations of the evil ones. You will remember Devastations, 4, 10. “The sea will scour the shore. Gaia will raise the water and cleanse abomination, leaving the rock as white as washed wool, as white as scrubbed bone.” What else did you see?”<br /><br />“A great spread of brown coming from the south east.”<br /><br />“Ha! Just as the elders say. That would be the rivers backing up and spreading. What you saw is coming from the Irgle, no doubt. Do you know what the Irgle is?”<br /><br />“Gaia’s spittle.”<br /><br />“Ha! That would be one way of putting it. When I was a boy we called it her stream of pee. Gaia drinks rains in the mountains and pees it out onto the plains. Watch you don’t repeat these things to the novices. They will be scandalized and report you.”<br /><br />“I’m not that stupid,” Hibson said.<br /><br />After looking at him suspiciously for a moment the foreman replied, “No, you aren’t. But I have to be cautious. Some of you young men are incredibly dense. How far had the brown spread?”<br /><br />“One third of what I could see, coming from the south.”<br /><br />“Well it won’t be long now,” said the foreman. <br />“Until what?” Hibson asked.<br /><br />“Until it washes away the evil ones of course. What else?”<br /><br />“Drowns them?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Won’t they move onto higher ground?”<br /><br />“I doubt it. They are too busy killing one another. By the time they wise up it will be over.”<br /><br /><br />The next day the elders sent Hibson back to the edge to observe. They sent a cage of homing pigeons with him so he could send back messages.<br /><br />1st day: Brown half way up. Black river moving to the northeast.<br /><br />2nd day: &nbsp;Brown over halfway. Black river moving directly north.<br /><br />3rd day: Black river overtaken. Chaos. Spiders and dragonflies abandoned.<br /><br />4th day: Water in front and behind Black river. A great circle gathered on high ground being slowly eaten away.<br /><br />5th day: Everything is water. Bodies floating.<br /><br /><br />Perhaps a dozen rafts reached the rocks. There they were met by the Elder’s Purity Guard. The survivors were helped off the rafts, given a drink of clean water and then lined up against a rock face and shot dead.<br /><br />“They were of the dark side, servants of evil, abominations,” the foreman said to Hibson who said nothing in reply.<br /><br />“They were a bacillus,” said the foreman. “They had to be stopped dead at the edge of the water.”<br /><br />Unlike the foreman, Hibson had witnessed the executions. Those who ran, rather than wait for the bullets, were chased down and bludgeoned to death with iron bars. The white robes of the Purity Guard assigned this task became splattered with blood. The commander ordered them to strip naked and toss their clothing into the waters.<br /><br />The foreman was still talking. “To allow them to mingle with us would have brought contamination. Thank goodness we have the steel of the Purity Guard who did not flinch at such a gruesome task.” After saying this he looked at Hibson but Hibson refused to meet his eye.<br /><br />Some of the survivors were children. Most were with parents or relatives who held them close and spoke words of comfort to them as the Guard raised their rifles. But there were a few unattached who ran. The guard used their iron bars on one, a girl of about ten years of age, for what seemed to be an eternity before she stopped moving.<br /><br />When the foreman was gone Hibson got up and walked across the field to where his ponies were hobbled. They snorted when they recognized who he was and came to nuzzle him. Each of the six he rubbed about its furry ears and kissed on the forehead. Then he laid his own forehead between the ears of his favorite, a dappled, shaggy creature with immense, intelligent eyes and wept silently. Large, hot tears rolled down his cheeks and fell from his chin onto the pony’s head.<br /><br />“No, no, no, it was a terrible sin,” he told the pony. “He is a liar; it is he himself who is the abomination.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-10730081427999772842012-07-08T09:11:00.000-07:002012-07-10T22:16:12.107-07:00M. Frost<br />Genuine simplicity arises from integration; but there is another form of simplicity – the pseudo simplicity of the role player, the poseur. The first bears fruit which is its own reward; the second, self invented as it is, bears no fruit and has for its bloom rancor, bitterness and death.<br /><br />In the end he was rejected,<br />Found wanting,<br />His love, kisses,<br />Without issue,<br />Drained of fervor.<br /><br />It was then Death drew back the curtain to reveal<br />The lunar landscape;<br />Dry, empty and barren.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />M. Frost<br /><br /><br />Horace, they say, was the favorite poet of the Emperor Augustus, for he was a moralist and moralists are much beloved of Emperors who favor the simple minded doctrines of hard work, domestic virtue and mindless patriotism. They distrust intelligence and intellectual inquiry and rightly so for discontent, political and otherwise, follow quickly in the wake of freethinking. Love your gods; love the Emperor; love your family; produce profit; join in when the barbarians have to be put down. Keep the empire revenue flowing and the legions marching. <br /><br />But there were no Roman Emperors in the woods of New England, just dirt poor farmers scratching a living from the meager soil and back woods universities, students and faculty arguing arcane philosophies now deep in the ash cans of cultural history. So what’s a young and ambitious lad to do? Off to England of course where the pope of literature is an American, by God, and edits the poems of another American and even bullies the Irishman into dropping the Georgian cobwebs. Faint praise he gives but even faint praise from the elusive spider puts one on the map, is this not true? Depends on what you mean by the map. &nbsp; <br /><br />Then, of course, there was doggerel for the New Emperor almost fifty years later. An old man addicted to applause, mumbling inanities. Drag the statue around from one spot to another, the white haired beloved courting topical fame for in his heart he feared he would have no other. The crowds at the end like Sinatra’s, coming for the historical occasion, not caring whether he missed the notes or forgot whole stanzas.<br /><br />Now is the year 2010 in the mountains of Switzerland. It’s the week before Christmas and corridors of the private clinic are festooned with holly and spruce branches giving off a delightful forest scent in a place which usually smells of formaldehyde and nasal spray. Doctor Uri Kalenkin, a specialist in Geriatics, a large headed man with a long thin body, finishes his walk to the end of a wide corridor and enters a private room. In the corner of the room is a very old man sitting up in a stuffed chair. The doctor crosses the room and sits on a straight-backed chair beside him.<br /><br />And how is M. Frost today?” asks the doctor.<br /><br />“Miserable, as always,” replies the old man with no particular passion. M. Frost is a very ancient man. The bulk of his emaciated body is hidden beneath the folds of a thick terrycloth bathrobe under which he wears a set of double knit wool pajamas. Around his neck are wrapped two wool scarves, one black, one blue. On his head is an enormous fur hat with ample side flaps down and the string tied tightly under the chin. And yet the temperature in the room is ten degrees above average temperatures in the clinic which are, in turn, higher than normal. <br /><br />There are two bright blue eyes staring out from a wrinkled chamois almost unrecognizable as a human face. One is reminded of reptiles – crocodiles, tortoises, snakes. The bright blue eyes gaze steadily upon Doctor Kalenkin who is looking through the window off over into the mountains in the far distance.<br /><br />“Have you received an answer?’ the old man asks.<br /><br />“I’m afraid I have,” replied the doctor.<br /><br />“If you are afraid then the answer must be no.”<br />&nbsp; <br />“He says it would be counter productive. No one has ever done more than two heart transplants on the same person and this would be your third. Counterproductive is the term he used.”<br /><br />“If it produces a few more years for me then why call it counterproductive?”<br /><br />“Perhaps he thinks you wouldn’t make it through the operation. Perhaps he thinks the strain on your other organs would be too much and you would die within weeks anyway.”<br /><br />“If his fees are paid then why does he worry about such things? Let me worry about them. Or you even.”<br /><br />“Well, ….”<br /><br />“Well, what?”<br /><br />“There seems to be a problem with the fees.” <br /><br /> "How?”<br /><br />“I made informal inquiries through the usual channels. It seems the program officer has changed. The new one is a much younger man than the man we dealt with for many years. By the sound of his voice I would say he isn’t thirty. He didn’t recognize your name. I had to repeat it twice. He had never heard of you. Of course when he brought up the file he had everything – your history, your ongoing participation in the program, etcetera. I filled him in on some of the personal details you never find in files. He said he would get back to me.”<br /><br />“He phoned three weeks later. He didn’t have much time. His whole organization was in turmoil. There were drastic cuts. As he put it, there were heads rolling all over the place. No more transplants he said. And, on top of that, a procedure had been initiated which would eventually move you to a clinic where the fees were cheaper. But he is not even sure of that. There is a faction in his department who think the older clients should be simply shucked off and left to fend for themselves.”<br /><br />“So that’s the gratitude I get from those bastards. All those years of supporting them on the public stage and this is what I get.”<br /><br />“Times change, M. Frost. The man I was speaking to was not even born when you left your native country.”<br /><br />“What does that have to do with it? They owe me and the debt has nothing to do with individual persons. It’s a state commitment you might say.”<br /><br />“That well may be but even state commitments must be overseen by somebody. And over him or her there is a boss and maybe a committee. They get orders from on high about resources and they have to make decisions.”<br /><br />“Work for them, do you? Weasel apologist.”<br /><br />&nbsp;“You know very well I don’t work for them. I am merely pointing out there is a real world out there.”<br /><br />“One which wants to dump me in the garbage can.”<br /><br />The doctor did not reply to this. M. Frost didn’t care if he replied or not.<br /><br />“Perhaps you would be so good as to have Doctor Frankle come see me,” he said.<br />Doctor Frankle was the Clinic Director.<br /><br />“Certainly,” said Doctor Kalenkin.<br /><br />M. Frost closed his eyes. This was how he dismissed people these days. Once he used to shout at them to go away but closing his eyes saved energy. The doctor smiled, rose to his feet and left the room.<br /><br /><br /><br />Doctor Frankle was a relatively young man to head such a prestigious clinic – thirty-seven. He always dressed in a conservative business suit, the uniform of the Swiss professional classes. He was plump and the suit tailored to hide his belly, which it did very skillfully. M. Frost did not like Doctor Frankle. He disliked his professional cheerfulness and his insincere smiles. The doctor liked to look at the good side of every situation even if the patient he was talking to was minutes away from dying. M. Frost thought Doctor Frankle to be a rolly polly clown like the ones from his childhood, weighted at the bottom so that no matter how hard you hit them or tried to knock them over they bounced up immediately, smiling their silly clown smile. However, Herr Doctor Frankle was the Clinic Director and had to be dealt with.<br /><br />“Surely there are special funds,” M. Frost said to the Doctor as soon as he sat down.<br /><br />“Not in cases such as yours,” replied the Doctor.<br /><br />“And what are ‘cases such as mine’?”<br /><br />“Citizens of a foreign country are not eligible for special funds.”<br /><br />“So you bastards are going to let me die.”<br /><br />“M. Frost, you are a very, very old man and if you die one can hardly say the Clinic is responsible. There is such a thing as nature, M. Frost and it plays itself out, it runs its course. Most people your age would have died a long time ago.”<br /><br />“You are disappointed I have not followed a more average path, Herr Doctor?”<br /><br />“Of course not. You are a marvel, M. Frost. The Clinic treasures you and has treasured you for many years.”<br /><br />“And perhaps it could find a way to treasure me for a few more.”<br /><br />“There are no funds, M. Frost. Your benefactors refuse any extra funding whatsoever. They pay your monthly bill but only after a lot of detailed haggling. There is no money for transplants or expensive intervention surgery.”<br /><br />“Do they tell you why, Doctor?”<br /><br />“No. And I do not ask. What they fund or do not fund is none of my business. It would be presumptuous for me to try and make their decisions for them.”<br /><br />“Well, then, let me ask this – do you agree with them, do you think their decision the right one?”<br /><br />“To be frank, yes I do.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Your benefactors’ organization has been hit with deep funding cuts, M. Frost. They have to cut to balance the books and funding a transplant for you, a very suspect procedure, one our surgeon refuses to condone or perform, is out of the question. I must say I think this a sensible decision, one I would make myself if I were in their place.”<br /><br />“There are many heart surgeons in the world, Herr Doctor, and they do not all live in Switzerland. Contacts of mine tell me there is a Delhi surgeon who will do the whole thing for ten thou plus expenses, perhaps another ten.”<br /><br />“That’s just the surgeon, M. Frost. The charge for the room and aftercare would be ten times that.”<br /><br />“Not in Delhi.”<br /><br />“You are in Switzerland, M. Frost, not Delhi.”<br /><br />“A mere plane ride over the mountains, dear Doctor.”<br /><br />“I am afraid you are living in the world of make believe, M. Frost. I cannot join you there for I have a Clinic to run. You will have to excuse me. I have to get back to my work.”<br /><br /><br />Most men, especially very, very old men like M. Frost, would give up after such a succession of rebuffs. But not M. Frost.<br /><br />There was a cleaner who mopped M. Frost’s room every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, usually in the afternoon around four o’clock. He and M. Frost were both gregarious men and while the cleaner mopped they talked about many things and over the years had become friendly. The cleaner was Gypsy and M. Frost asked him one day if he knew someone who would drive him to Delhi. The cleaner replied he knew somebody who would drive anyone anywhere if the price was right. M. Frost had money in gold coins in a safety deposit box in a bank in a nearby city. After much discussion he and the cleaner made an arrangement.<br /><br />Of course the Clinic would not allow M. Frost to leave the premises but security at the Clinic was minimal for the patients were either very old or dying or both and hardly needed a vigorous security presence to keep them in line. As well, it was assumed that M. Frost was more limited in his movements than he really was. For many years he refused to walk to the dining room, taking all his meals in his room. The reason for this was not immobility but because M. Frost found the sight of sixty-five old people eating their meals depressing. And although he seldom walked outside his room, within he walked regularly for some hours a day, back and forth, back and forth, like a prisoner in a cell.<br /><br />So it was not difficult for M. Frost to slip out of his room in the middle of the night and be let out a side door by one of the cleaner’s cohorts. He crossed a section of darkened lawn (it was at the back of the building where the Clinic was economizing on outside lights), slipped through a hole in a hedge, which was exactly where he was told it would be, and climbed into the front seat of the car awaiting him there. The next day he emptied the safety deposit box, paying his driver one half of the agreed upon sum and storing the rest in a money belt around his middle.<br /><br />His driver was a small man the size of a twelve year old but his gray hair and wrinkled face showed his true age of sixty-two. He drove very fast and very skillfully along the tertiary highways he and the cleaner had agreed were the best for a very old man who wished his traveling to be anonymous. The driver did not speak any language known to M. Frost which was just as well for the excitement and intense activity preceding their trip had exhausted M. Frost. He let down the back of the passenger seat and slept most of the way. They ate from two coolers full of ice, drinks and sandwiches in the back seat. Occasionally the driver stopped on the shoulder of a deserted road and they went into the woods to urinate and defecate.<br /><br />Every night the driver pulled off the road in a place he thought likely and they slept in the car, that is the driver slept, for M. Frost, free of the responsibility of driving, spent most of the day sleeping. While the driver was sleeping M. Frost felt the need to ‘stand watch’. They always parked under trees. He spent the night looking out the windshield and through the leaves at the stars burning in the night sky. The driver slept the sleep of the dead. He didn’t move a muscle during the whole performance which usually lasted six hours. He breathed so silently through his nose that several times during the night M. Frost, his fears getting the better of him, held a hand mirror up to his face to see if he was still alive. Fortunately, each time, he was.<br /><br />There were borders to cross but none of them presented a problem. The driver took care of everything, speaking a tongue to the officials which M. Frost assumed was Arabic. Papers were looked at but only in the most cursory fashion, partially due to the one hundred dollar bill folded into M. Frost’s passport which the officials extracted with practiced fingers and slipped into their pocket.<br /><br />The farther south they went the warmer it got. M. Frost abandoned his winter hat after the first day and took off his inside overcoat on the second. By the time they arrived in Delhi he was down to the clothes a man would wear in a New England autumn.<br /><br />The driver dropped him off at the entrance of the hospital. He wanted nothing to do with Indian medical officials and was gone before M. Frost went through the front doors. What a crush of humanity in that busy lobby! By the time he reached the desk M. Frost was feeling overheated for the first time in thirty years. He opened the top two buttons of his wool shirt to let in a little of the turgid Indian air.<br /><br />Doctor A (M. Frost was not allowed to know his full name) was an excellent surgeon. Three months after the surgery M. Frost stood outside the hospital doors once again. Precisely at the appointed time his driver pulled up and he climbed into the passenger seat. The return journey was much faster for there was no reason for secrecy and they drove the main highways.<br /><br />Unfortunately M. Frost died of heart failure during his second night back at the clinic. When Doctor Frankle was informed he refused to allow resuscitative procedures to be employed. “He’s as old as the Himalayas for Christ sake. Leave him alone,” he told the night doctor in charge. This had nothing to do with the fact that M. Frost’s benefactors had not paid the last month’s bill or that he had received an email the day before informing him there would be no more payments on the account of M. Frost. The email’s sender, a junior bureaucrat recently hired, expressed his opinion that it was technically impossible for M. Frost to be still alive and the old man who had in some way assumed his identity was a scurrilous old rascal, no doubt a Gypsy con man. His sources told him (and oh what sources these people had, thought Doctor Frankle, all of them misinterpreted) the clinic was ‘infested’ with Gypsies and the Director should exert himself to get rid of them.<br /><br />M. Frost, who in death looked more like an ancient mummy than a man who had recently died, was laid to rest in the pauper’s patch, as the staff called it, a piece of land off from the main cemetery. M. Frost’s grave was deep for he was first in what the workers called a ‘column’, that is a very deep hole, which when fully filled with one as flat as possible coffin after another, (as the occasion demanded) held fifteen corpses encased in plywood boxes covered with inexpensive cloth. At the foot of this collective grave was a limestone slab where the carver’s apprentice chiseled in the latest addition. M. Frost would, no doubt, have been proud to know that his name was first on the list. That none of his accomplishments followed his name is understandable for the staff at the Clinic had assumed his grandiose claims of fame to be an old man’s ravings, the product of an aged, diseased mind. &nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-70637883391896514922012-07-04T07:49:00.000-07:002012-07-04T09:40:22.007-07:00M. Hopkins<br /><br />M. Hopkins<br /><br /><br /><br />The neighbours considered M. Hopkins a moody, morbid man who stood silent for long periods studying the roots of trees on the river bank and sat in his garden all afternoon reading and smoking a long stemmed pipe. Granted, if met on the street he was unfailingly polite and cordial but that, most likely the neighbours thought, was a bit of play acting learned by morbid men to ingratiate themselves with their fellows. He lived in a cottage at the end of Gardon street.<br /><br />In truth it was not play acting for M. Hopkins was a deeply cordial man but he was also old and sick and had little energy for gossip and street corner conversations. He had, as he told the woman who did his cleaning once a week, six good hours a day and he needed them for his ‘project’ as he called it, the bringing to the press of a book of poems. Mrs. Williams, the cleaning lady, was sympathetic. Although she liked a good jaw herself she was imaginative enough to comprehend why this very nice old man kept to himself. She even defended him to the face of one of the more vicious hags who held court in the mornings outside the corner store. &nbsp;“What do you know about poetry, Meg Spicer,” she said to her, “when you can’t even read and write?” This shut down Meg’s jawing at least until Mrs. Williams left. Then she started in again on how some persons thought themselves above others, lording it over them with their princely ways, when everyone knew it was the good and simple folk who were the chosen of the Lord and if they had good hearts he didn’t care if they could read and write.<br /><br />The cottage had a small study overlooking the garden. The garden was a simple affair – a hedge along the back for privacy, a willow tree for shade, a patch of bright green grass bordered by flowerbeds. Mrs. Williams’ nephew, a twelve year old, cut the grass and tended the beds. Or at least he pretended to tend the beds for no matter how often M. Hopkins showed him which were desirable plants and which were weeds, Anthony grew confused in the midst of his weed plucking and, taking the tack of not pulling what he wasn’t sure of insisted upon by M. Hopkins, he in truth weeded perhaps ten percent. Mr. Hopkins did the rest in the cool of the evenings, fifteen minutes at a time. He didn’t mind. If he had not been not sick he would have done it all and the grass as well.<br /><br />On the fourth Sunday of every month, at three in the afternoon, Bill Evans came walking up the street and knocked at M. Hopkins’ door. Bill was a rumpled man wearing a suit which had seen better days, shiny at the knee and elbows and too big. In the wind the excess fabric drifted this way and that giving the impression that Bill was a sailing ship rather than a walker, an impression which with a strong steady wind at his rear was partially true. In contrast to the voluminous nature of his clothes he sported a shaved head with no hat. This was unfortunate for Bill was not one of those men who have slightly dark skin which browns evenly in the sun but was a Celt with blotchy skin which the sun made even blotchier. His head had seven or eight shades of colour like a piebald horse.<br /><br />“Come in,” shouted M. Hopkins for he and Bill were on intimate terms and there was no need for formalities at the door. When he came into the study Bill sat on the chair opposite M. Hopkins, between them a small tea table filled with everything necessary for an afternoon snack. Bill walked ten miles to arrive at the cottage and M. Hopkins thought the least he could do was to have refreshments ready so the man could restore himself before they went to work.<br /><br />Bill was a big eater. He had three sandwiches, six cookies and two cups of tea before he opened the briefcase sitting beside him on the floor. From it he took out laptop computer and, after clearing a spot, placed it on the table.<br /><br />“So what’s the plan, Bill?” M. Hopkins asked.<br /><br />“The plan, dear man,” said Bill, “has finally settled into a coherent pattern. We are about to sign a deal with XY corporation for digital publishing, and with AB corporation for paper and ink. Digital release first and then when pressure builds, paper and ink. I have made arrangements with certain key persons for reviews. Eminent persons with large followings in the poetic community.”<br /><br />“And what about timing, Bill?”<br /><br />“Ah now,” said Bill, “that’s quite another thing isn’t it? The timing, as you can imagine, has to be just right. A mistake in timing and the whole thing could blow up in our faces, so to speak. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” <br /><br />"Not really,” said M. Hopkins. “I know little about the publishing world but then again I have every confidence in you, Bill, and I am sure you are right.”<br /><br />M. Hopkins brought his chair around the table to sit beside Bill and together, Bill doing the typing, they began editing the twenty-ninth poem in his collection.<br /><br /><br />When Mrs. Williams came to clean on Wednesdays M. Hopkins went into the garden to get out of her way. M. Hopkins thought it would be unpleasant for Mrs. Williams to do her work with someone looking over her shoulder. He went out to the garden even when it was raining for there was a gazebo with a steel roof to keep off the rain. There he sat reading and smoking his long stemmed pipe for three hours, usually from one until four. When she was finished Mrs. Williams came out with tea for both of them and they had it in the gazebo using an old bench for a table.<br /><br />When she was seated and had poured the tea, Mrs, Williams said, “So, is the time approaching?”<br /><br />“Definitely, Mrs. Williams. Bill assures me the necessary elements are gathering. It’s a delicate business apparently. Things have to be just right.”<br /><br />“What things?”<br /><br />“The markets. They must be allowed to reach a point where they are just so. It takes an experienced man like Bill to know. He has studied the markets for many years. His track record, he tells me, is splendid and impeccable. Soon he says but we mustn’t be impatient and jump the gun. Bill has seen many disasters arising from people jumping the gun. He seems a hardy man, healthy and robust but when he mentions these poor unfortunates his face screws up in anguish. Although he likes to pretend otherwise, Bill is a man of empathy and feeling.”<br /><br />“I’m sure he is,” said Mrs. Williams but there was something in her tone to voice saying the exact opposite. “You are sure he is the man for you?” she asked.<br /><br />“Oh yes,” said M. Hopkins. “Bill is the salt of the earth. He’ll get the job done, no doubt about that.”<br /><br />No doubt he would, thought Mrs. Williams, but exactly what job was another matter. She knew Bill for he grew up three streets down in her old neighbourhood. She, like M. Hopkins, knew nothing about the publishing business but she did know something about human nature. She had a sneaking suspicion that Bill knew as little about the publishing business as she did and wondered why M. Hopkins had such faith in the man. One day she got out of M. Hopkins that Bill had been about to publish the book for more than ten years now. Ten years! “And have you given him money all the way along?” she asked.<br /><br />“Yes, of course,” said M. Hopkins. “There are expenses and they must be paid.”<br /><br />On that day Mrs. Williams did not press further. M. Hopkins seemed tired and she didn’t want to distress him.<br /><br />Later that week, however, she phoned a few old friends and asked a few questions. The information she received wasn’t good. Bill was a shyster who ran a dozen confidence games, publishing being only one of them. It was the usual grim tale. He chose the weak and unworldly and stuck to them like a leech until he bled them dry. He was careful to stay just inside the line which would land him in trouble with the law but there had been a few times he had stepped over and had been charged. But Bill got off because he could hire expensive legal talent.<br /><br />Mrs. Williams was at a loss for what to do. She had no confidence she could explain all this to M. Hopkins who was an otherworldly man if ever there was one. Yet she could think of no way she could bring pressure on Bill to make him back off and even if she did she wondered if this would be good for M. Hopkins. That Bill would ever find a publisher for the book was an illusion, yes, but if that illusion were taken away, what would he be left with? Despair probably. Despair and hopelessness.<br /><br />One day at the supermarket, Mrs. Williams ran into an old acquaintance, a woman she once sat on committees with when their sons attended the same school. The woman was a bureaucrat of some kind, perhaps a social work administrator.<br /><br />Mrs. Williams explained M. Hopkins’ situation, leaving out all names, of course.<br /><br />“But nobody does that any more,” the woman said. “This is the computer age. He should have someone set up a web site or a Blog and publish the poetry there. If he wants he could hire a consultant to promote it for a set fee. Other than if you are some kind of poetry bigwig, an eminent professor connected to the committees and grant people, you will never get a printed book of poetry published. And even if he did, who would buy it? Nobody knows his name; he’s not plugged in. &nbsp;No, he should self publish on the web.”<br /><br />Mrs. Williams wrote down three names of computer consultants dictated by her acquaintance. She phoned them all that very afternoon. From what she was told two thousand dollars would set up and maintain a site and plug it into the places where the poetry readers were. M. Hopkins had told her, in an unguarded moment in the kitchen at the cottage, that he had paid Bill more than twenty thousand dollars, so far.<br /><br />But when she brought it up the next week with M. Hopkins he would have none of it. Bill had a computer so why would he hire anyone else? No, Bill was his man. After the long trail they had walked over the past ten years things were looking up and this was not the time to be giving up on the important leads Bill had told him he was following just that week. He thanked Mrs. Williams for her concern and interest but he thought it best to stay the course with good ole Bill.<br /><br />That Saturday night Mrs. Williams was at the pub with one of her girlfriends when a woman walked in the door and sat at the next table. She looked familiar and Mrs. Williams asked her girlfriend to turn surreptitiously and see if she recognized her. She did. She was in their grade seven and eight class years ago. She was a cop now, a detective. Cassie knew this because she was married to her first cousin and saw her now and then at family gatherings. When Cassie went off to sit a while at another friend’s table, Mrs. Williams got up and walked to the table where the woman was sitting alone. The woman recognized her and asked her to sit down.<br /><br />The detective knew Bill, oh yes everybody downtown knew Bill. He was a slippery one the detective said, very slippery. One of her pals worked the fraud squad and every year they took a poke or two at Bill but they could never nail him. The detective didn’t like Bill. A crook who steals cars or cigarettes and insurance pays for it - well it’s not nice but she couldn’t work up a moral fervor over it. But Bill pretended to be people’s friends and then took their money. He befriended the weak minded and then betrayed them. The detective didn’t like that. She wouldn’t mind giving Bill a swift kick in the balls. He was scum as far as she was concerned.<br /><br />Mrs. Williams described the situation with M. Hopkins, again leaving out the names. The detective sighed and shook her head. “If he has given over that much this guy must be on the simple side, is he?”<br /><br />“No,” said Mrs. Williams. “On the contrary, he is a very intelligent but gullible. I think he has been protected from the world somehow over the years and doesn’t see the obvious things right in front of his face. I’ve seen some of his poetry. Now I’m no expert but it seemed good to me. Very serious and skillful.”<br /><br />“And he won’t take the advice of your friend to publish on the web?”<br /> <br />&nbsp;“No. He says he will stick with Bill.”<br /><br />The detective sipped her beer and thought about this for a while. Then she said, “We could try leaning on him. Bill, that is. We could squeeze him a bit and see if we can get him to bugger off.”<br /><br /><br />Bill, of course, did not walk ten miles to get to M. Hopkins’ cottage on Sunday afternoons. This was a ploy to appear impoverished and self-sacrificing in the service of M. Hopkins. He had a cab drop him off a block away. As well his suit was a costume. He usually wore expensive designer suits but M. Hopkins was a spiritual man who would not have been impressed with expensive and flashy. A suit bought from a thrift store was just the thing for M. Hopkins. The bald head was his own but on other occasions he wore a natural human hair wig. He had several with different hairdos and varied them to suit the occasion. He thought the concentration camp look of his bald head would appeal to M. Hopkins and he was right. M. Hopkins felt for him. This was a man who has suffered he said to himself. That a person had suffered was important to M. Hopkins for he saw himself as a great sufferer and a fellow sufferer like Bill was his brother. He felt a communion with him right away.<br /><br />But the detective wasn’t fooled by the suit and the bald head. She recognized him as soon as he stepped out of the cab. She climbed out of her own car and came across the street. When she came up to him she said, “Hi, Bill.”<br /><br />Bill looked at her suspiciously and asked, “Who are you?”<br /><br />“You don’t recognize me, Bill?”<br /><br />“Never saw you before in my life,” Bill said.<br /><br />“That’s wonderful,” said the detective. With that she kicked him in the back of the knees. When he went down she kicked him twice in the stomach, then bent down and picked up his briefcase and walked to her car. When she was driving away Bill turned to see the rear plate but there was a blank spot where the plate should be. He had the wind knocked out of him and with struggling to get his breath he found it impossible to identify the car’s make. It was little and blue or pink or something like that. Later when he contacted his lawyer he told him not to bother contacting the police. He would just make a fool of himself with a description like that.<br /><br />The briefcase was a worn old thing also bought at a thrift store but the Mac laptop was new and top of the line. The detective stopped at a bridge across the river three miles away and tossed them over the rail. Of course Bill had lots of money to replace it but still it was a two thousand dollar hit. An expensive afternoon.<br /><br />That day Bill phoned and told M. Hopkins his mother had been taken to the hospital unexpectedly and he would be unable to come.<br /><br />“Is there anything I can do?” M. Hopkins asked.<br /><br />“No,” said Bill and punched the end call button.<br /><br />That’s the last M. Hopkins heard from Bill. Bill didn’t want to risk running into the ‘Nazi woman’ as he called her to his friends (if you could call barflies you buy drinks for your friends). “A real bitch,” he said, “a ball buster.” His friends nodded sympathetically but their real sympathies lay with the ‘ball buster’.<br /><br />M. Hopkins was very disappointed when Bill disappeared but after a time of mourning, so to speak, he went with Mrs. Williams one Monday morning to see a computer consultant, a bright, chipper young man who knew his business. Within a month he was set up and taking computer lessons so he could service the site himself.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-72168666294478304922012-06-17T09:16:00.004-07:002012-06-17T09:16:47.407-07:00Fallon<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Fallon<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Lonergin arrived at the Fallon airport he hired a taxi to drive him to the hotel in the center of town. From what he could see out the cab window it seemed an average little mill town, tucked into a fold in the foothills and surrounded by lush green meadows and verdant forest. A tributary river, carrying runoff from that section of the foothills some five hundred kilometers to where it flowed into the big river running north, split the town into two equal sections. Strangely the houses along the banks seemed the same as those farther in. “Where are the houses of the rich?” he asked the cabbie.<br />“Ten Kilometers north,” replied the cabbie.<br />“Out of town?”<br />“O yes,” said the cabbie. “Taxes.”<br />“And outside on the south?” asked Lonergin.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s where I live. Can you guess?” The back of the cabbies hand resting on the steering wheel was brown. Darker in the summer perhaps but even in deep winter it would be brown.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t have to,” said Lonergin. The cabbie laughed. “There are small farms out there, going way back. With a little farming and occasional work in town, people survive.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And the mill?”<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;“Only town people work at the mill.” &nbsp;The mill, out of town and to the west, was hidden by series of small hills. These hills protected the town from the stench in all weather excepting that blowing a direct east wind and that was rare. Today the wind was from the northwest and all you could smell was freshly cut grass, moist air carrying the scent of water from the river and the rich forest smell coming from the fully leafed trees both in the town itself and the woods surrounding.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin felt a little depressed. In the past ten years he had been in so many of these little towns and they were all similar, all depressingly the same. He came, unannounced, with a briefcase full of authorizations, his mind full of barked verbal orders from his superiors, to put out fires, to squeeze things down so they wouldn’t cause problems, so everything would appear normal, happy, running with the smooth precision of oiled machinery. Lately he found himself doing his job with all his usual cool efficiency but his heart wasn’t in it. In the fall he would apply for a transfer. When the leaves came down he would get an internal job, stay in the city and perhaps revive a few of the hobbies he had abandoned years ago.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When they retrieved his bags from the trunk the cabbie offered to carry them but Lonergin waved him off. The cabbie shrugged and Lonergin paid, him adding on a generous tip. He didn’t like other people carrying his bags. He could bloody well carry them himself. He wasn’t a Lord or a rich magnate, just a bureaucrat and a rather lowly one at that. But when he checked in at the desk he allowed the skinny young bellhop to carry his bags to the elevator and then into his room. How would the poor bastard make a living otherwise? The bellhop’s skin was brown too and he had a long, thin, elegant nose you would think would be perched on the face of an English aristocrat. Perhaps it was. There were a lot of remittance men out this way in the old days.<br />“Do you live in town?” he asked.<br />“No, sir.”<br />“Where, then?”<br />“On a farm to the south.”<br />“Cattle?”<br />“Some. Pigs and chickens too and a big garden.”<br />“Is there money in that?”<br />“Not much but there’s food in it. We eat well.”<br />“Well, that’s half the battle, isn’t it?’<br />“Yes it is, sir.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin tipped him three times the going rate and the boy left smiling. They never queried his expense accounts. If he had a larcenous mind he could have made lots of money out of it but he couldn’t see any reason to bother. He made far more than he spent, the excess going into investments handled by a brother-in-law. Very conservative, very balanced investments, half of it government bonds. He already had enough to live in some warm country for the rest of his natural life, so why bother skulking about to pile up even more? His wife was a bureaucrat too. She made more than he did. The kids were grown and into lucrative professions, one a medical specialist, the other a businessman. It was ludicrous really. Money came to them like they were sponges absorbing water.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He watched a movie before going to bed. A space opera. Formulaic, granted, but well done with good actors and a good script. He was happy when the corner was turned and the good guys won without too much bloody annihilation. When it was over he read his book for an hour and went to bed.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The meeting was set up on a phone call from the Big Boss in the city. That’s the way it was always done. It sent a message to whomever that lack of cooperation would bring out the big guns, that the investigator was the voice of power and authority. Lonergin was grateful for this method of procedure. It meant he didn’t have to convince anyone of anything. He just had to ask questions.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The mayor was a rolly poly man. He sat behind a gargantuan desk in an oversized chair, behind him a window overlooking the river. He wore a three piece suit, tailor made, containing enough material for two or three lesser men. He was telling Lonergin his version of the history of the town, the usual highly edited edition told by mayors, full of mercantile wonders and heroic members of the Chamber of Commerce. Lonergin was an old pro at listening to this sort of thing. He listened with one part of his mind while another part wandered about the back streets looking for other faces and other stories. He thought of the bellhop. He thought of the cabbie. He thought of the woman who served him bacon and eggs in the hotel restaurant. He thought of the young woman who knocked on his door just before he went to bed and asked him if he would like to have ‘a good time’. He didn’t. Professional sex was far too sad an affair for him to find pleasure in.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The mayor was a verbose but ignorant man. His language never rose above the deep fried rhetoric of tourist brochures and town council resolutions. His syntax was tortured, his thought without leaven and he was totally humourless. His smile never touched his eyes and not a single thing he said had even the slightest whiff of the genuine to it. He took himself very seriously and assumed through a fog of ponderous, bright, highly upbeat projections, that everyone else did so as well. In short he was a pompous ass. But Lonergin neither liked nor disliked him. To him the mayor was like a cow in a field chewing her cud, with the exception that the cow, as lowly as many might see her to be in the hierarchy of creation, was at least engaged in the performance of an act having behind it the full force of her animal nature. When the Mayor came to a pause in what Lonergin judged to be a far too long oration, which, if allowed to continue, would not only consume the morning but poison it as well, he broke in.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Is there a union at the mill?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No,” said the Mayor. His face took on an expression of deep displeasure as if while speaking with a man he had assumed to be a sympathetic gentleman, it had suddenly been revealed to him that he was conversing with an unsavory character.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not so unusual in this day and age, is it?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“People around here settle things through the family.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What family?’<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“We like to think of the town as one big family.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You may like to think of it that way but is it true?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I think so.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin took his eyes away from the mayor’s face and looked out the window. It was mid morning. The bright sun was lighting up the surface of the river in a great display of sparkling and reflection. He studied this for a while. The mayor was pretending to look at the papers on his desk but he was really studying him surreptitiously to see what was coming next. Without removing his eyes from the river Lonergin asked, “Did they tell you why I am here?’<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.” the mayor replied.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Five young men murdered within a single year. Rather unusual, isn’t it? Perhaps you have an opinion on the subject?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not really,” said the mayor.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK, if you don’t have an opinion on that subject perhaps you have one on another. Five young men murdered and yet no one charged. In fact, according to the reports forwarded by your Chief of Police, not only are there no charges but there seems to be no evidence or suspects either.”<br />&nbsp; “The police do the best they can. We don’t have the big bucks out here like they do where you come from.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O, I don’t know,” said Lonergin. “On my walk from the hotel it seemed to me that this is a prosperous little town.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And it stays that way by not wasting money on useless investigations.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Useless? Isn’t that a strange word to apply to a murder investigation?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, perhaps useless isn’t the right word. What I mean is we have limited resources and we must use them judiciously.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yet surely you are aware that in a situation like this you can apply to the central government for extra funds. Five murders in a single year for a town this size would almost certainly qualify. Yet you haven’t applied. Perhaps you could tell me why?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“If a gang of thugs outside the town want to kill one another why should we waste money getting too excited about it?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So you think the murders were committed by outsiders against outsiders.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Exactly.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“My Chief tells me that’s where the body’s were found.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Bodies can be moved, Mr. Mayor.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The Chief tells me they were killed where they were found.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did he? It seemed to me from the reports that that was a matter of opinion rather than investigative fact. In the reports there seemed to be a great scarcity of investigative fact, almost as if the Chief didn’t have time to find any.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, he is a busy man.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And you too are a busy man, Mayor.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good. Then you will be pleased when I tell you that an investigative team arrives tomorrow to give you a hand. To take over the investigation in fact. When do you come into the office in the morning, Mr. Mayor?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“About nine.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Keep the first hour open then for the team. For the next two weeks or so.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, I don’t know…”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do what you like then. If they want to speak to you they will simply walk in and order anyone present to leave. It’s up to you.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well of course then. I’ll keep it open.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Lonergin reached the door he opened it and turned. “Why are you convinced these murders are revenge, the settling of debts, whatever, among the outside people?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They are lawless ruffians. None of them have a pot to piss in. You always find high murder rates among those kind of people.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then why is it,” asked Lonergin, “that before these five murders, for a period going back twenty years, was there not a single murder among them?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“These things go up and down,” said the Mayor. Lonergin stepped into the outer office and closed the door.<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The Police Chief, in contrast to the mayor, was an exceedingly thin man. So much so that at first Lonergin thought he might be ill with a wasting disease. When the investigative team arrived he had them look into it. The Chief was actually in robust health. Apparently even as a young man he had been cadaverously thin. He had a sad face filled with successive lines of rumpled skin. There was a blue black bag under each eye. He had a long, thin nose which reminded Lonergin of the plows the old people used to turn sod. His eyes were round like saucers, watery and pale blue and surprisingly kind and sympathetic, surprisingly to Lonergin for he had expected something else. He sat behind a modest wooden desk with not a thing on it but a small bowl of jelly beans. From this bowl, every few minutes or so he took a few jellybeans and popped them into his mouth. He offered the bowl to Lonergin, as a substitute, perhaps, for a glass of scotch. The Chief didn’t drink. To be sociable Lonergin took a few and tossed them into his mouth. They were truly delicious jellybeans.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“The reports, Chief.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Are lousy, I know.”<br />&nbsp; Lonergin was taken aback. The chief smiled. “You didn’t expect that, did you?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They were done by a Lieutenant on the Mayor’s orders. I just signed them.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You could have refused.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have seven children. They eat. But I also have a conscience. It eats too if you don’t pay attention. There are sub reports, you might call them, put away where only I know where to find them. They are not much better than the official reports for almost no follow up was done. The bereaved were interviewed for form’s sake. There were no suspects because the Lieutenant was ordered not to look for any. But there is some physical evidence which didn’t go into the official reports and a much better detailing of the condition of the bodies - when they were found, time, place etc.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Autopsies? I didn’t see any reports in the files.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s because none were done. I know that’s illegal but the town refused to authorize payment for them.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And the bodies now?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Cremated a week after death.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Christ. Did the relatives give permission?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. It was just done. But in my reports there is a very accurate summation of the condition of the bodies, the immediate surroundings, approximate time of death and some physical evidence.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Such as.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Shell casings. A footprint in one case. Threads of fabric in the victim’s hand in another. I gathered all that surreptitiously, sometimes going back to the scene at night when no one was there.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why?’<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Because I wasn’t in charge of the investigation.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Who was then?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The Mayor and the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant is the Mayor’s son-in-law.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The Chief rose from his desk to pour them coffee. When he placed the full cups on the desk Lonergin asked him. “Who and why?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The Chief popped in a few more jellybeans. “I really don’t know, at least in a concrete evidence based sort of way. I have hunches. I have intuitive leaps. I have educated guesses. But I don’t have knowledge.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Give me some of your educated guesses, then.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK.” The Chief opened a desk drawer and took out a package of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.” said Lonergin.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He lit the cigarette with an old time zippo lighter. He reached out with a long leg and pulled over the waste basket for an ashtray.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Two years ago the outsiders figured they were not being given a very good deal. Low class jobs. None on the police force. In fact not a single one as an employee of the town. And none at the mill. That’s were the real money is. Even a labourer at the mill, with overtime, makes as much money as I do. I suppose they figured if they didn’t do something it would go on that way for ever. So they decided to do something. They looked around them and came to a conclusion – a very intelligent conclusion but also very dangerous. The outsiders come into town to buy everything – food, hardware, booze, building supplies, farm supplies, everything. There are ten thousand people in the town but the outsider population is perhaps twice that amount. Some of the younger one’s who had been away to the university decided to set up a co-op. They held meetings and started the process of registering the co-op with the central government. Apparently they planned to set up a general store carrying practically everything. With volunteer labour they started to renovate an old barn about twenty klicks from here. They were about half done when the first murder occurred but they kept going. After two and three things slowed down to a crawl and after the fourth, a particularly grisly torture murder, they stopped altogether. It’s still out there on the 1169 if you want to take a look. Some say it would have been burned down but the outsiders, at least I’ve been told so, guard it around the clock carrying shotguns.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So that’s why. Now who?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The Mayor’s son-in-law. But he is on a leash and the holding end of the leash is held by the Mayor and four or five of his pals. Now I say this and am 99% sure of it but there is absolutely no proof that will stand up in a court of law. The bodies are gone. No autopsies. The physical evidence I gathered will never convict anyone. It might give an intelligent investigator who knows the situation a good idea of what happened but it will never convict anybody. But I doubt if it will matter anyway.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why do you say that?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Because they tortured the last guy before they killed him. Somebody gave the family pictures of the body before it was cremated and a detailed list of its wounds. The outsiders are on the bottom end of the social scale but that doesn’t mean they are stupid. They have their clods like all groups of people do but there are many among them who are resourceful, ingenuous and intelligent. What would you do if someone tortured your son, killed him and then set it up so they could not get caught?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin didn’t say anything.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You know what you would do but you just don’t want to say you being a law abiding government official. You know what you would do, don’t you?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin took a long time to reply but the Chief waited patiently. Finally he said. “Yes. I know what I would do.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, I think that’s what the outsiders are going to do.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The team arrived the next day and set to work. The Chief gave them the sub reports and drove them around the gravel roads to interview the victims’ familiars. They worked for three weeks out of a room in the Police Station. But it was as the Chief had predicted. They arrived at a fairly accurate picture of what happened but had no evidence which would stand up in a court of law. The Lieutenant and a suspected cohort had lawyers at their interviews and said practically nothing. The Mayor refused to be interviewed and without solid evidence they couldn’t force it. The Mayor’s pals were even farther away. They were ghosts moving across the far edge of a field in the twilight. The team wrapped up its work and flew back to the city to file its report. Lonergin decided to stay another day.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He was woken by the phone beside his bed at five in the morning. “This is Phil Gillis,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “the Chief. There’s a body at 506 Compton you should take a look at. I’ll send a car.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the car arrived Lonergin was in the Lobby. First light was beginning on the eastern horizon but the town was still dark. When they came to the house the Chief was on the porch smoking a cigarette. There were two police cars in the driveway and the Identification van was at the curb. When Lonergin came up the stair the Chief, sitting in a lawn chair, offered the empty one nearby with a gesture of his left hand. Lonergin sat down.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It’s the Lieutenant, of course,” said the Chief.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Right,” said Lonergin.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you want to go in and see?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did you ever see this sort of thing before?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Once or twice.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Probably not like this though. They were vengeful. People have nightmares for two years after seeing something like this. A lot of times it doesn’t even hit people for two or three weeks. It takes time to sink in. Then they wake up at night hollering, covered in sweat. Still want to see?” Lonergin shook his head.<br />&nbsp; “You are a wise man. There are enough terrible things we have to see in this world without volunteering for more. I look because I’m a cop. I have no choice. When I was young I should have went into the gardening business with my uncles but at the time I had fool ignorant notions about noble heroes and so on. By the time I realized they were fool and ignorant it was too late. Five kids and twins on the way. I should have worked flower beds and used contraception.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Two identification officers came out of the house carrying plastic cases. They walked over to the van, loaded the cases and drove away.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The Chief waved his cigarette towards the departing van. “They’ll find a few things. They are pretty good and they always do. But it won’t be of any use. There won’t be anyone to match it to. The guys who did this are already gone. We will ask questions but no one will answer them. Remind you of another situation? That’s just what it will be like.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Won’t it matter that he was a cop?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not really. There will be a little of that but not much. Everyone in the force hated his guts. They all thought him a sadistic son of a bitch. He would have been fired years ago if he wasn’t the Mayor’s son-in-law. He was killed because he deserved it. Just about nobody who knows anything about all this will really care if the killers are never caught.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What did they do to him?”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Probably when he got off shift yesterday morning at eight and climbed into his car they knocked him out with something. He lived in this house alone. How could anyone live with a man like that? They drove him home and into the garage. He always kept the door opener on the dash of the car. Took him down into the basement and strung him up by his hands with his feet a few inches off the floor. They duct taped his mouth. When he woke up first they castrated him. They duct taped his genitals onto his forehead. Then they shot out first his ankle joints, then his knees, then his hips, then his elbows and then his shoulders. They let him hang there for a while I suppose then they shot him through the head three times.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Just like the last outsider.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Just like the last outsider.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What a horrible way to die.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what a horrible way to make someone die.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The murder of the Lieutenant terrified the suspected cohort. He left town and then, after some sober afterthought, never came back. But the Mayor refused to leave. The Chief provided him with a twenty four hour bodyguard. “Do your best but don’t get too close to him. Do you know what I mean?” he told the guards and they all nodded. Even the dull witted ones nodded.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin was back in the capital when the Mayor was killed. It was on a September day with a nice fresh breeze coming in the window one of the night cleaning staff left open. When the Mayor arrived he found it so refreshing that he decided not to close it. They shot him through the window with a 222, a rifle with a flat trajectory, and as the window was open, there was no glass imperfections or glare to cause sighting problems for the shooter. The shot was well aimed. The slug entered the back of his head at the joint of the spine and the skull. The slug was hollow point. It broke into four parts rattling around the inside of his skull chewing up his brain as if it had been placed in a blender. The Mayor wasn’t the sort of man to have regrets. This was just as well for the way it turned out he was given no time to have them.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;There is a co op now operating on the 1169. It does a good business. Most of its customers are outsiders but it does a sprinkling of business from townies who come out for the bargains. There are now two outsider police officers and three outsiders have just started to work at the mill.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Lonergin decided not to tell his wife about the details of the murders. So when he began to wake at night hollering, flailing his arms about, he told her it was the return of childhood nightmares. After the third night of this she demanded he go to a psychologist and he did. The psychologist, who considered himself to be a radical shaman type of healer, told him he was a spoilt bureaucrat, a soft and useless creature and thus easy prey for malignant furies. He suggested Lonergin sell his sailboat and give the money to the poor. As Lonergin did not have a sailboat he was unable to follow this advice. Instead he bought a membership in a gym and took up weight lifting. After three months of pumping iron the nightmares went away and he was able to leave the guestroom and rejoin his wife in the connubial bed.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Chief Gillis retired early, a year after the Mayor’s murder. He and his family moved to a farm outside town where they breed sheep and Lamas. At first the kids complained bitterly but they stopped when their mother bought them three horses and they started to play hockey with the outsider kids on the local pond. The new co -op is just down from their farm which pleases the Chief for since his retirement he doesn’t like going into town. He finds the streets too crowded and the faces too innocent and imbecilic. Saturday mornings the Chief can be seen at the coop hovering his hawk’s nose above the tool displays while his wife does the grocery shopping. Saturday afternoons he sits on his front verandah drinking coca cola and eating jelly beans. Old friends from town, out for a drive in the country, sometimes join him there along with people from around the neighbourhood. Everybody gets along. Sometimes they even sit down together at the Chief’s table for supper and have a delicious meal of fresh pork and garden vegetables.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-20735381722282196892012-06-06T21:26:00.002-07:002013-01-09T08:32:55.039-08:00Marriage Arising from Intellectual Speculation<br />Marriage Arising from Intellectual Speculation<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Gregor wrote metaphysical poetry. He had begun writing it at the age of sixteen due to an excess of eros combined with a Catholic upbringing. He didn’t want to write metaphysical poetry; rather he would have infinitely preferred to write love poetry or poetry celebrating the lush earth or political poetry, anything other than metaphysical poetry which was completely out of fashion, and, to many, a sign of weakness of mind. But he couldn’t help himself. Try as he might to write other kinds of poetry it always turned out metaphysical. This disgusted him so much that for several years in his thirties and forties he wrote no poetry at all and in fact swore to all his friends he would never write another line. But he was spitting into a powerful wind. Regardless of his own opinions on the matter he came back to writing poetry and the poetry was metaphysical.<br /><br />At one time, in his thirties, he worked out a theory that time would break him of the habit eventually and a new type of poetry would emerge. Time, he told himself, robs us of our illusions and surely his biggest illusion was the existence of something above the physical. He was willing to admit that something mixed in with the physical was possible, even probable, but above was ridiculous. But this theory of his turned out untrue. At the age of sixty, when he retired from his ragtag patchwork of small jobs –apartment caretaker, proofreader for a German newspaper, unpaid editor for a magazine publishing metaphysical poetry, newspaper vendor and so on – he said to himself, “Well, now that is all done, thank goodness.” But it wasn’t. After a brief hiatus of writing two detective novels filled with metaphysical speculations, but no poetry, he began once again on his lifelong obsession with writing metaphysical poetry. Finally, at the age of sixty-three, after thinking seriously about throwing himself into the river, he woke one day filled with what was at first was a bitter but then a hopeful acceptance of his lot. For some strange reason he had been born to write metaphysical poetry and any more rebellion on his part would be fruitless and sterile. He had finally come to the point where he accepted his fate.<br /><br />“There is no such thing as fate!” said Andrew in response to his explanation of the above process.<br /><br />“So there is no DNA then?” replied Gregor.<br /><br />“DNA and fate are two completely different things.”<br /><br />“No they aren’t,” said Rudolf. “They are two different words, yes, but they mean much the same thing.”<br /><br />“Nonsense,” said Andrew. “The idea that we are preprogrammed, that we merely act out the instructions of The Great Computer, is pernicious.”<br /><br />“But neither fate nor DNA implies that, Andrew,” said Gregor. “What you are speaking of is the old Calvinist view of predestination. There is no reason why you can’t have fate &nbsp;interacting with individual initiative. Surely that is a maturer vision than a romantic notion of Great Prometheus or the Hero Totally Self Determined. Even our common sense tells us that many things are laid down for us. And then there is the whole question of culture which influences how our minds move, what kind of questions we ask. We can’t dismiss all this and claim a separated existence in a vacuum.”<br /><br />“Granted there are a lot of things laid down,” said Gregor. “I’m not arguing there isn’t but I am saying there is still a huge area where our own initiative has great play.”<br /><br />They argued on like this for some time until Rudolf grew extremely bored and offered to buy everyone tea and cinnamon buns if they would agree to change the topic. It was just before the end of the month and Gregor and Andrew, broke and hungry, agreed immediately.<br /><br />The buns were heated and when Rudolf brought them to the table they slavered them with butter, ate enthusiastically and washed it all down with hot tea. Behind the counter Fritz was rubbing his hands at selling something extra to the ‘three grumblers’ as he called them privately, who seldom bought anything but three cups of tea over which they spent entire afternoons arguing. Occasionally one of the grumblers would hit the jackpot and buy a tray of deli sandwiches but this only happened once or twice a year. In the winter, especially a cold one, he doubted if they paid for their share of the heat, the old freeloaders. He called them grumblers because they always seemed to be complaining about something. They complained about the present state of literature. They complained about politics. They complained about the crappy books being published of late. The only thing they didn’t complain about was the weather. The weather, whatever it was, was always fine to them. If it was raining that was great. If the sun was shining that was fine too. If it was cold it was invigorating, bracing. If hot, it was just the kind of diauretic old men needed. They were radical acceptors of the weather. About everything else they complained.<br /><br />Yet Fritz didn’t mind their complaining. On the whole the place was rather dead. People sat lined up one at a table staring at their computer screens lost in the la la land of cyberspace. Sometimes the café was totally filled with these kind of people and there was not a single conversation. But when the three grumblers showed up they shook the place up. They knew many of the patrons and teased them mercilessly. They sat in a corner near the window and talked so loudly you could follow their conversation from the other side of the café. The screen addicts glanced at them irritably. If the professor was at his usual table with a crony or two he literally growled at them. Rudolf growled back. “How are you doing you old hypocrite?” Rudolf shouted across the tables at him. “Have the police been around to pick you up yet?”<br /><br />The professor showed his yellow tombstones to indicate he could take a joke which was untrue but socially necessary. At least once a month he dreamed of murdering Rudolf in a gruesome way. Once he slowly lowered him into a vat of acid. Another time he tossed him off the roof of a high rise. During each murder Rudolf admitted the error of his ways and pleaded for mercy but the professor was relentless.<br /><br />Asking if the police had come round to pick up the professor was ironically ridiculous, for if there was a man less likely to be sought by the police than the professor it was hard to imagine whom he would be. Other than the occasional lapse with women and that a matter of impious propositioning rather than illegality, the professor was scrupulously law abiding. He had a reverence for authority which leaned towards preferring absolutist government over what he considered to be inefficient, squabbling democracy. Rudolf’s anarchism, to the professor, was dangerously disrespectful of duly constituted authority and unpatriotic. If the old standards had not ‘gone by the boards’, as the professor phrased it, Rudolf would have long ago, along with his black flag friends, been put in jail on meager rations until he came to his senses. Why he was allowed to move about in respectable society spreading his poisons was beyond him. He had spoken several times to Fritz about barring such persons from the café but Fritz just laughed. “I don’t care what they think as long as they eat and drink,” he said. Fritz didn’t care much about ideas and political struggles but he liked Rudolf who was lively and jolly. The professor, on the other hand, was morose. He had much of the undertaker to him - a presbyterian dead pan seriousness. When the professor laughed it was from reasons of policy. He hadn’t laughed out of a sense of delight for more than fifty years.<br /><br />After buns and tea the old friends decided to go for a walk. The café was close to the river and along this section there was a paved path. They strolled along the path for a kilometer and then sat down on one of the benches in a grassy area leading down to the water. They sat on the bench for some time in silent companionship. Just beyond them there were two young men casting out into midstream. On the grass beside them were three silver coloured fish. They must have been caught some time ago for they were dead and still. Above them stretched enormous cottonwoods, fully canopied and spreading about them a delicious coolness.<br /><br />After they had sat for five minutes without saying a word, two young women came along the path. They were wearing long cotton dresses and sunhats for the day was hot and the sun full. One of the young women walked slightly ahead of the other. The two did not even glance at the men on the bench and seemed to be about to pass them by when the last in line suddenly stopped and turned to face them. She looked at them with an intensity which seemed out of place for such a casual encounter between a young woman and three older men on a bench. Her companion also stopped. She said something to her which the men could not make out. The young woman made a brisk gesture with her right hand as if to brush her off. Then she walked up to where the men were sitting and said, “Are you all married?” She had a slight Spanish accent but the words were enunciated clearly and the friends had no trouble understanding what she asked them.<br /><br />Andrew answered, perhaps because in his job he dealt with marriages and young women, and it seemed to him most natural that he do so. First he smiled, a generous wide smile half professional, half arising from his usual overflowing spirits. “Why do you ask?” he said.<br /><br />The young woman considered this question for a moment. Then she said, “I need a husband to stay in the country. Otherwise they will send me back. If I am sent back they will kill me.”<br /><br />“Where is back?” asked Rudolf.<br /><br />“Mexico.”<br /><br />“And who will kill you?”<br /><br />“The gangsters. Or maybe even the police who are bribed by the gangsters. My husband was assassinated. He was a drug dealer. I managed to escape and come here but now they are going to send me back. The lawyer says if I can find someone to marry me then I can apply under a different section and will be allowed to stay.”<br /><br />“How do you know that if you go back they will kill you?” asked Gregor.<br /><br />“That’s the way they do things. They kill the man and the wife too.”<br /><br />During this question and answer the other young woman came up behind her companion and said, “Please excuse her, sirs. She is distraught. Up until now she has been able to restrain herself. This is the first time she has approached strangers.”<br /><br />The second young woman reached out and took the first’s hand and tried pulling her away but the first ignored her. She stood her ground and kept looking at the men.<br /><br />“I need friends,” she said. “I need someone to help me.”<br /><br />“But I am your friend, Estanza,” said the other young woman.<br /><br />“Yes you are but you can’t marry me. I need a man to marry me.”<br /><br />“This requires further investigation,” said Rudolf. “And this is not the place to do it. Not far from here there is a Vietnamese restaurant. Let’s go there and have lunch. During lunch we can talk.” <br />At the restaurant they had lunch and talked for an hour and a half. The friends decided than Estanza was telling the truth. They considered it their duty to find her a husband.<br /><br />“What kind of a husband do you want?” asked Andrew.<br /><br />“Doesn’t matter,” said Estanza. “As long as he is free to marry and healthy enough to stand up during the ceremony.” She laughed.<br /><br />“What I mean is,” said Andrew, “Do you want us to look for a real husband or is it to be a marriage of convenience.”<br /><br />“What is a marriage of convenience?” asked Estanza.<br /><br />“Real legally so that you can be landed but you don’t live with the man and when things are settled you can get a divorce.”<br /><br />“I guess one of those then,” said Estanza. “There isn’t enough time for me to find one I would want to live with.”<br /><br />The friends told the two women to meet them at the restaurant at same time two days from now. They figured by then they would have found a husband. Julia, Estanza’s friend, a cousin who had immigrated as a child, gave Andrew her address and phone number and they went off.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;“Do you have anyone in mind?” Andrew asked Rudolf.<br /><br />“Vaguely.”<br /><br />“Who?”<br /><br />“There are a number of old anarchists who might step into the gap.”<br /><br />Gregor had several bachelor friends, one of whom might be willing to assist them. Andrew had three old gentlemen in his congregation he would ask. They agreed to meet for breakfast the day after tomorrow.<br /><br /><br /><br />Rudolf, being the most solvent among them, insisted on paying for the breakfast and later for lunch at the Vietnamese restaurant. They ate breakfast in a tiny place just down from the café.<br /><br />“So?” said Andrew.<br /><br />“I asked three of the old anarchists I thought might be willing but they all said no,” said Rudolf. “They claimed they were old and set in their ways. ‘What does that have to do with it?’ I asked them. ‘All you have to do is mumble a few ritual phrases and go home.’ But no they said, they were too old to get mixed up with women and complicated arrangements.”<br /><br />“Last night I went to visit my three bachelors,” said Gregor. “It was the same with them. They didn’t want to get involved. The woman might come after their pension. There might be complications. The immigration people might accuse them of fraud and they would have to hire lawyers.”<br /><br />“Well,” said Andrew, “ I drew a blank too. The old gentlemen are all widowers and each told me their children would scream bloody murder if they married a young woman. Their grandchildren would accuse them of being lechers.”<br /><br />“My, my,” said Rudolf. “That means we will have to activate a scheme I have been revolving in my mind since we met Estanza yesterday.”<br /><br />“What scheme?” asked Gregor.<br /><br />“The professor.”<br /><br />“No,” said Andrew.<br /><br />“What do you mean, no?” asked Rudolf.<br /><br />“The man is a lecher. Even at his age he would insist on his conjugal rights.”<br /><br />“Yes,” said Gregor, “but would he be capable of exercising them?”<br /><br />“I doubt it,” said Rudolf. “He’s eighty-eight and has a bad heart.”<br /><br />“Maybe,” said Andrew, “but you never know with some of these old guys. And there are the new drugs.”<br /><br />“We wouldn’t be able to tell him it is a marriage of convenience,” said Rudolf. “Perhaps we could convince him that Estanza has seen him everyday going by her window and decided that, although a little on the older side, he was a fine figure of a man. And now she must marry or be deported why not approach this fine old gentleman whom she had been admiring for some months. Stoke up the old buzzard’s vanity. Lay it on with a trowel. Freely admit Estanza has an ulterior motive, yes, but why not combine it with marrying a handsome old man with an aura of prestige and standing in the community?”<br /><br /><br />Andrew was delegated to talk with the professor. They invented an address for Estanza which put her on the professor's walk to the café every morning. Andrew was a little queasy about the ethics involved in such a deception but he was convinced that if Estanza was deported she would be murdered. The situation demanded bold steps; to be overly scrupulous was to be an accessory to murder.<br /><br />The professor was interested. “Mexican, you say?” he asked. He had often dreamed of dark skinned senoritas flinging themselves about in flaming flamingo dance routines. Many years ago he had been in love with the Mexican actress Ida Lupino. Andrew convinced the old man that Estanza had watched him walk by her window every day for some months and thought him very attractive. It was all he could do to get this out without bursting into laughter. The professor went for it hook line and sinker. When could he meet the young woman? If speed was necessary then it would have to be a quiet affair. But then at his age he wasn’t interested in hoopla and fancy celebrations. Perhaps Andrew could perform the ceremony. Keep it in the family so to speak. Andrew promised to phone him that very afternoon.<br /><br />“I’ll take my chances,” Estanza said when they explained the situation to her.<br /><br /><br />The Professor and Estanza were married two weeks later in the Unitarian church. Andrew preformed the ceremony, Gregor was the best man, Julia the bridesmaid. Rudolf, not wanting to antagonize the old man, or give him reason to suspect a plot, stayed away. Afterwards the professor took everyone out to an upscale restaurant where they ate steak and lobster tails and drank six bottles of expensive wine. When the dinner was over, the professor, bride on his arm, left the restaurant and the newlyweds took a cab to the professor’s home, a stately brick three story on the riverbank not far from the café.<br /><br />There the professor, who drank one and a half bottles of wine by himself, fell asleep on the sofa. Estanza, a strong young woman outweighing the professor by thirty pounds, carried him into the bedroom and undressed him. She found a pair of pyjamas in the bureau drawer and put them on the old man. Then she covered him with a light blanket and left the bedroom. In the kitchen she wrote a note to the professor thanking him for a night of delirious love which, to be frank, she had never thought she would experience with an older man. Such passion! She was gone off to do some errands but would be back in the early evening. She left the note on the kitchen table.<br /><br />When the professor woke he went into the kitchen and read the note. He was pleased. Although he could not remember the previous evening with any accuracy he was delighted that nature had taken its course and his bride had been satisfied. He was somewhat exhausted after his night of celebrating and went back to bed and slept until noon.<br /><br />This became the pattern of Estanza’s and the professor’s nights of love. She convinced him that a man of his age must build up a reserve and once a month was the most to be expected. The professor was an imbiber of wine and she always made sure there was three or four bottles of his favourite for their special nights. Together with the effects of the wine, which invariably made him sleepy after a bottle and a half, and the professor having reached the point in his mental activity where dreaming he had done something and having done it was much the same, he was convinced he and Estanza had a night of successful passion every month. He was a little surprised that such happy completion had come upon him in his old age and was most grateful to Estanza who with her round cheeks and peasant face he saw as a grounded, earthy, everyday version of Ida Lupino.<br /><br />After his marriage the professor became close with the three friends. What is marriage if there are no friends attached to it? He even extended the hand of comradeship (not the anarchist kind, of course) to Rudolf for the sake of his friendship with Gregor and Andrew. They came for supper every second Saturday. Estanza made tamales or burritos and, after dinner, they watched a movie on the professor’s big screen TV (formerly used by the professor exclusively for watching porno flicks).<br /><br />The professor died at the age of ninety-one, at night, in his own bed. Estanza found him in the morning cold as ice but with a peaceful look upon his face as if he had been dreaming something pleasant when death came by to take him.<br /><br />Estanza inherited everything, which was substantial for the professor never had a family and was a frugal man. During the three years of her marriage she had become an anarchist under the tutelage of Rudolf. After the funeral she had an apartment built in the third floor of the house for her own quarters and gave the first two floors over to Black Flag Society, the new anarchist organization recently started by Rudolf. <br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-22864955431742867422012-05-29T18:33:00.002-07:002012-05-29T18:33:47.989-07:00Redemption By Jews<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Redemption By Jews<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob was sixty-one when he came to the Philippines. &nbsp;He had been divorced two years before and had just wrapped up the sale of his carpentry company to a young man who had worked for him as an assistant for ten years. He decided to try the hot countries where he had never been to see if he might like to retire there.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The divorce was Jacob’s third. His wives accused him of insensitivity, irritability and ill temper, all of which were true. He had violent temper tantrums in which he smashed crockery, broke windows and hurled things at his terrified wives, fortunately without hitting them. They said he was insanely jealous and controlling, which was also true. All of these accusations were on the record for each of his divorces went to court. What his wives did not say, out of delicacy, or on the advice of their lawyers, or both, was that even in his fifties he was oversexed, demanding sex two or three times a day at the very least. His wives found this at first flattering but later tiring. They also did not put on the record that he was a raging antisemite, a significant portion of whose conversation was composed of rants against the Jews. He babbled the usual ragbag of inane shibboleths from the tradition of that particular obsession at them until they were driven almost mad. Perhaps the lawyers advised them not to mention this for Jacob himself was a Jew, on both his mother and father’s side, and it might introduce an element of confusion into the court proceedings. It should also be mentioned that Jacob was an exceedingly handsome man, highly intelligent, capable in business and very charming. Not in court, for obvious reasons, but privately to their lawyers (women, all) they mentioned that for some time after their marriage to Jacob they were very much in love and were convinced they had made a wonderful match.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;When Jacob landed in Manila he stayed over only one night. For the past five years he had lived on a farm outside the medium sized city were he ran his business, commuting every day. Over this time he had come to see cities as the old prophets saw Sodom and Gomorrah, as cesspools of moral slackness and depravity. After his night surrounded by such dangers on every side he took a bus on a day’s journey to a small provincial town he had once read about in a magazine. Here he put up in a small hotel, not a tourist hotel for the town was far off the beaten track and had no tourist trade to speak of. The other guests were mostly business travelers, salesmen and small contractors. The management gave him a very reasonable monthly rate, including meals in the restaurant, and he decided to stay for at least a few months.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The town was on the sea as just about all towns there are, for the Philippines is a country of islands. It was hot, in the high thirties centigrade, with brilliant sunshine. Every day he walked to the beach a kilometer from the hotel and swam in the sea. In the afternoons he bicycled on the gravel roads leading out of town through little villages with houses built on stilts and thatched with straw, past groups of people working in the fields. He brought a sandwich and a bottle of juice with him and had a mid afternoon snack usually on a hill where he could look off into the distance while he ate. He was back at the hotel for supper at six. Afterward he climbed the stairs to his room on the third floor and took a nap.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Every evening at nine o’clock on the dot, for Jacob was man of clocklike routine, he left his room with its tiny balcony overlooking the town and descended the stairs to the lobby. At the foot of the stair he turned right, and, crossing in front of the main desk, passed through a set of double mahogany doors leading to the bar. The bar was much larger than needed for the guests because it served not only the hotel but also the surrounding community. Jacob sat at a table in the corner frequented by a small group of European and North American ex patriots. There were about twelve regulars, most retired and a little older than Jacob. Since it was Wednesday night and the full complement appeared only on Friday and Saturday evenings, there were only five present. As Jacob approached the table it struck him for the twentieth time how brightly their pale skins shone pink and strange in that sea of brown Filipinos made even browner by so much time outside under the hot season sun. This was accentuated for three of the men who had taken to combating baldness by shaving their heads. Jacob gave a general wave and, when the very attentive waiter appeared almost immediately, ordered a beer.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Over there, Jacob,” said the man on his left, one of the billiard balls whose jet black eyebrows appeared as finger clouds crossing the face of a pale full moon. This was Carson, a retired pharmacist from the American mid west who lived in the hotel eight months a year and dabbled in local real estate. Jacob didn’t remember his first name or even if he had ever heard it. Everyone called him Carson. Even Carson referred to himself as Carson. Jacob turned his head to follow the pointing finger until his eyes came to a stop at a table where four young women were drinking beer.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The closest one on the left,” said Carson.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The closest one on the left was wearing a bright yellow dress printed with figures of elegant blue and white flowers. She was beautiful with the particular kind of beauty that only a mixture of Melanesian, Spanish and American blood can bring. Even, perfectly formed features, high cheek bones, flawless skin, a lovely rich brown, jet black hair done up in a bun secured by a comb at the back of her head, and almond eyes which were perhaps Formosan, perhaps American Eurasian, or perhaps even the eyes of a Castilian Duchess come to rest after many years of restless wandering, here in this little provincial town. She was talking animatedly to her friends who were also speaking animatedly so that one wondered if they had some magical ability to speak and listen at the same time. There were no men at their table. While he was watching a young man approached the women, but after a brief, polite exchange, he went on his way.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what about her?” Jacob asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A widow looking for a husband. Preferably a rich one.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How do you know?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I bribe waiters. I have intimate conversations with my barber.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How did she get to be a widow? Arsenic?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Ha ha, very funny. And with some of these women not far from the truth. In her case, however, it was perfectly above board. He was a fisherman and died in a storm at sea. That would be difficult for even the most malicious wife to manage.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What about age?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“My informants tell me she is amenable with a top range of late sixties. That is, of course, if there is enough money involved so there is no need for her to be embarrassed by lack of a dowry. Her husband took the boat which her dowry helped to buy to the bottom of the sea with him.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “She’s very beautiful, Carson. Perhaps a little rich for my blood.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O, I don’t know. This is a poor place and a Westerner of even modest savings is quite a catch, the equivalent of a multi millionaire back home.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob and his friends went on to talk of other things and he forgot about the young woman. But an hour later when the band got up to play he walked across the floor and asked her to dance. She rose, took his hand and followed him onto the floor. A waltz. She held herself at arm’s length of course, for it was unseemly for strangers to dance close like lovers or a married couple. When the dance was over she invited him to sit at her table and was introduced to her friends. Jacob bought a round of beer – a European beer, which they claimed, on its arrival and a few sips, to be inferior to their local beer with the added penalty of being twice as expensive. Jacob stayed at the table for the rest of the evening, dancing with Julia, the young woman, six or seven times and once with each of her girlfriends. When he was crossing the lobby to ascend the stairs to his room, Carson, who was leaning on the front desk chatting to the clerk, said to him, “well, I guess we won’t be seeing you for a while.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob chuckled politely but kept on his way.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Julia came to the bar on Wednesday and Saturday nights. Jacob spent these evenings at her table but they were seldom alone. There was at least one girlfriend, sometimes three or four. Julia worked in the laundry at the local hospital and the girlfriends were all co-workers. After two months of this, one evening, Jacob was sitting alone with one of the girlfriends, a plump, affable young woman named Rose. Julia was late coming for some family reason and the other two girlfriends at the table were up dancing. After she had scrutinized him for some moments with her dark eyes, Rosa asked, “are you married?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Divorced,” replied Jacob, not insulted at all by the question. He was delighted that someone was finally coming to the point.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Retired?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Are you going to live here full time now?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Probably.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Julia doesn’t want to leave. She’s a home girl.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Jacob said nothing to this and a few moments passed by until Rose brought her eyes back from the dance floor where they had wandered and asked, “if you married would you be bringing your property here?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How much?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Rather blunt but how else could you ask such a question? Jacob mentioned a figure.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“American?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“American.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You will invest here?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Julia has connections through which mortgages could be let out.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And how much would such mortgages amount to?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Two hundred thousand American.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A lot.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. Such beauty has a high premium.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The mortgages are to be let out to family?” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Some but not all. Will you buy a house?” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “I suppose, yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Julia has three children, a mother and an older sister who live with her.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I see.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They come with her is what I mean to say.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Fine.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And am I correct in assuming that it is marriage you have in mind?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Of course.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Julia trusts me. I will make the arrangements.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Two days later Jacob and Rose met in the hotel restaurant and made the arrangements. He gave her a sum in cash to cover the costs and six weeks later Julia and he were married in the Catholic Church for she and all her family were devout Catholics or at least Catholics. There were four bridesmaids, three flower girls and three hundred and fifty guests who did not have to jam themselves into the small parish hall for it was a warm nightand after loading their plates with food and clutching bottles of beer in the crooks of their arms, went out under the stars and ate sitting on the ground. Jacob, at Julia’s insistence, wore a rented tuxedo for the ceremony but changed into shorts and T shirt for the reception. Julia wore her bridal dress all evening until they left to catch the late night bus taking them to the other side of the island for their honeymoon.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The honeymoon was not a great success but not an unmitigated disaster either. They had sex but Julia’s participation was tepid and Jacobs’s rife with performance anxiety. They stayed in a rented cabin by the sea and went swimming every day. Afternoons Julia went off by herself to visit relatives in the area. They had supper at the local restaurant and danced afterward when the band came on later in the evening. After two weeks Jacob was quite smitten with his new wife but Julia was bored to tears with her new husband. He spoke of little besides house construction, brick laying and Jews. He had a great passion of hatred for the Jews and accused them of terrible deeds in high places. He was an atheist. He hated the Christian God as much as he hated the Jews. He made loud, peasant like sounds slurping his soup at the restaurant. He complained when she bought trinkets at the local market to take home to her relatives. His love making was almost unbearable. He aroused no desire in her so she had to pretend like a woman in a bordello. He didn’t seem to notice. When he slept he snored all night, tremendous pig like snortings from deep caverns beneath his long, fleshy, North American nose. <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob bought a modest but roomy house not far from the hotel. He did not consult his wife for it was his opinion that such matters should be decided by the male. Fortunately, by blind luck, he had bought just the house which Julia and her mother looked at and fell in love with some weeks before. This had something to do with the fact that the real estate agent recommended by Rosa was Julia’s cousin. It was single story, spreading itself out over most of a large lot. It had a central courtyard opening onto a back lot overlooking the sea. There were fifteen rooms, one of them a long, wide living room/dining room, with a lean to kitchen at the back. Julia’s three children, mother, older sister and two elderly women cousins moved in with them. In the mornings, after seeing the children off to school, the women set up their work stations in the living room. One of the cousins worked a loom upon which she wove rugs and wall hangings. Julia, her mother and sister wove straw baskets. The other cousin made ornaments people buy to decorate children’s birthday parties. They worked from nine in the morning till supper time. At noon Julia and her mother walked to the market to buy food. Usually mama, as Julia called her, cooked supper.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Julia insisted that Jacob replace the old stove in the kitchen. They went out together and she picked out a gas stove with a large oven. As soon as it was installed two of Julia’s younger sisters came every night except Saturday and worked from midnight until seven in the morning baking bread, muffins and cookies. After breakfast they loaded their baked goods onto a handcart and pushed it off to the local market. Jacob complained. “Somebody is running a bakery out of my kitchen.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Our kitchen,” Julia replied.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK. Somebody is running a bakery out of our kitchen.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They are my sisters.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what does that have to do with it?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“My sisters are welcome in my house.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“All night, every night, running a bakery?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The oven is just perfect they say.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m sure they do. And I’m sure they find the free gas is also perfect.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob did not know that he was also buying the flour, yeast, raisins, baking powder, etc which went into the baked goods. Julia was an expert at jiggling household accounts so that turning a repair bill into bags of flour was no problem for her. But Jacob decided not to press his complaint. There were women everywhere, baking, weaving, painting walls, cooking, cleaning, talking, arguing and he felt a little intimidated. When the day ended the house filled up with cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, a seemingly endless parade of Julia’s family. Some came and went. Others stayed for a month, others for longer, and still others never seemed to leave. It seemed to Jacob that there were at least five children, besides Julia’s, who lived with them full time. When he brought this up to Julia she was vague. When he spoke to mama she told him that yes, ‘some’ children were with them for a bit because their parents were off working in Manila. She was vague about exactly how many. They were good children who ate very little and only required a tiny space to sleep in. (actually they slept in hammocks hung in a room which thus resembled the focsle in an old time sailing ship) The parents would be back any day now she assured him. But months went by and they still had not come. Jacob learned their names. In the evenings he sometimes took them for a walk on the beach along with Julia’s children and bought them ice cream from the little stand a few hundred yards down from the house. Eventually he ceased to ask when the parents would arrive.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;At the far west corner of the house was a two room suite, the rooms separated by a short hallway in turn closed off from the rest of the house by a rough plank door. Here, where it was quiet no matter what was going on in the rest of the house, Jacob had his bedroom. The second room served as his study. Julia slept with him here once or twice a week. The rest of the week she slept in some other room. Where he was unsure. At first Jacob complained but eventually he gave it up. He was of an age when often his number one priority was a night of undisturbed sleep. Julia was restless in bed. She often got up in the middle of the night and helped her sisters baking bread. Mama was especially solicitous of Jacob’s sleep. After he said good night and went through the door to his suite she had one of the older children help her cover the door with two heavy rugs to muffle the sound from the main part of the house. Jacob slept well in his bedroom and when the noise and bustle in the house became intolerable to him he had a quite place to retreat away from it all.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Four months after the wedding, on a rainy day, when the whole world seemed composed of rain beating on the steel roof and water rushing from the gutters, Rose came through the kitchen and onto the patio where Jacob was having his coffee watching the torrents of rain fall into the sea. He was happy to see her for he considered Rose an affable, business like person with whom one could deal in a direct manner and get some results. This was very different from the women in his house who were slippery as eels, elusive as weasels. Rose carried a cup of mama’s coffee with her and sat down opposite him at the ornate wrought iron table. After the usual formalities and a pause, Rose, as was her way, got to the point.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The mortgages,” she said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O yes,” said Jacob.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Julia has a cousin lawyer who can draw up the agreements. He has already done the preliminary work.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Fine,” said Jacob.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“He can come tomorrow afternoon for the signing of the papers and the transfer of the money. You can go to the bank in the morning.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;In the morning Jacob went to the bank and made the arrangements. The lawyer came after lunch, an enormously fat man who sat at the long kitchen table and unburdened an immense briefcase of a tall pile of documents. Jacob signed. Julia signed. The lawyer signed. Mama and the older sister signed as witnesses. They were small amount mortgage agreements, a thousand here, two there, the largest being ten thousand. Some were on agricultural land, some on houses and small businesses in town. When this was completed Jacob made out and signed a series of cheques certified on the spot by a clerk sent over by the bank. The documents and cheques then went into the lawyer’s case and mama and the older sister brought out several plates piled high with the younger sisters’ baking and a tray of gleaming bottles of beer wet from the ice bucket. The lawyer proposed an elaborate and comical toast and everyone laughed heartily. When the plates and tray were empty the lawyer rose and, accompanied by Julia in her best dress with her hair drawn up in a bun with a comb as it was the first time Jacob saw her, left through the front door to climb into his late model Japanese car to drive the documents and cheques around to the owners of the properties. Jacob walked them to the door and then went to his suite for his afternoon nap.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Julia did not come back until after dark. Jacob was having his beer on the patio and she came out to join him. She talked excitedly about where she had gone and the people she had seen, for driving in the car and meeting with so many people happy to conclude a hopeful business arrangement, stimulated her. Jacob listened impatiently. When she wound down he asked her once again about the baking sisters.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I suppose you want their children to go hungry,” Julia said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What does that have to do with a bakery being operated in my house?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s how they feed their children.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Don’t they have husbands?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The husbands are fishermen. How can a fisherman feed all those children?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob had no answer for this. Julia took the opportunity to rise in triumphant and stately dignity and go back into the house. When he came through the kitchen mama stared at him censoriously. The elderly cousins sitting at the table turned their eyes away. He continued down the hallway to his study where he sat in his armchair and brooded.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;One morning, some months later, Jacob cornered Julia alone in the kitchen. All of the other women had stayed up all night baking for a festival and were now off selling their wares at the market. He sat down at the long table opposite her and said, “mortgages have income.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Of course mortgages have income,” replied Julia.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then where is it?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The lawyer says some payments are late and others have been deferred for unavoidable reasons. The income from the others is just fine.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Just fine?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. Just fine.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What does that mean, ‘just fine’?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It means it went to places it was needed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Such as?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The Fuentes cousin needed dental work.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I see.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“School just started and the children needed clothing and supplies.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I see.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Consuela’s husband had his tools stolen and they had to be replaced. Carpentry tools are expensive as you should know.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But Julia, don’t you see that mortgage money is capital money? If the income is spent on expenses then the money is frittered away and the capital disappears.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Of course.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Of course what?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Necessary things must be dealt with whatever you call the money. After all you can call it various names but in the long run it is just money.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Just money?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, I would like you to give me an accounting of the mortgages, income, expenses and so on.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No problem. The lawyer is good at giving accountings and making lists. I will speak to him.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Whether Julia spoke to the lawyer or not Jacob did not know but some time passed by and he was still without an accounting. Six times he spoke to Julia who each time claimed the lawyer was about to appear any day but he never did. The last time she gave him this answer Jacob became enraged. He shouted at her in the kitchen. He chased her around the long table but she was much too lithe and quick for the likes of an aging, arthritic carpenter. He grabbed a cup from the table and was about to throw it at her when mama and the two baking sisters appeared in the doorway. They stared at him with terrible neutral looks on their faces. He placed the cup back on the table and went out through the patio door. He could hear the kitchen filling up with the other women, talking in excited voices. No doubt they had ways to rid themselves of unreasonable foreigners. Perhaps they threw them down a well then buried them alive with a rain of useless mortgage agreements, piano lessons, gas ovens, dental bills and the mouths of hungry fishermen’s children.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Julia refused to speak to him for a month after this event. She did not come to sleep in his room. The other women spoke to him but distantly. It was a week before the little children came to sit on his lap as they had before. But after another month it blew over. Julia came back to sleep with him but now only once a week. The children once again ragged him after supper until he took them down the beach for ice cream. Mama began once again to tease him occasionally about the fact that he was ten years older than her and the baking sisters to leave a few delicacies for his morning coffee. He had to admit to himself that these women had generous hearts. They did not carry grudges and they wanted very much that their house not become a place of war and division.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Mama and her daughters were possessed of an age old tradition of household gender relations. The man was officially recognized as the head of the house, the titular power. Jacob was seated at the head of the table and fed the choice cuts of meat. His coffee cup was filled before he mustered a desire that it be so. On all official occasions, family gatherings, he was treated like a grandee. His clothes were cleaned, pressed, adjusted and fussed over as if he were the King of France or the Emperor of all the Russias. On very special occasions one of the older sisters even shaved him for they claimed he did not pay close enough attention to the corners. He sat in the big chair in the living room while all the guests came to greet him, shaking his hand and kissing him on his cheek. Adorable children were plunked into his lap and he obediently fed them with the chocolate candies the woman had stuffed into his pocket. Even though he was not a Christian he was called upon to say the grace before meals, taught to him by Julia. His suite at the back of the house was sacrosanct. When he was sleeping the children were kept away from it with a stern discipline. In matters of household renovations he was deferred to. Was the patio to be retiled? Julia brought it up with him. Should the screened porch on the front be enlarged? Mama discussed it with Jacob over coffee. They allowed themselves to be guided by his wishes.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;In the matter of children’s expenses, however, it was another matter. After all men are lazy creatures of pleasure and did not bear children. In such matters their wishes, instructions, were to be interpreted in a broad fashion and not taken literally. Jacob did not want to pay for art lessons for Julio, Julia’s eldest? Fine. Then the grocery money could be squeezed, extra loaves of bread baked. &nbsp;The contractor cousin who did the patio could be asked to give a finder’s fee. That dense man should have offered it himself before he was asked. As a last resort there was the mortgage income, managed by Julia out of an ancient iron safe, a relic from the days of the Spanish and left in the house by its former inhabitants who perhaps did not have the energy to carry its many hundreds of pounds out the door. But only as a last resort for Julia was a careful manager. Not long after the letting out of the mortgages she was a part owner of several hectares of crop land and had a controlling share in a fabric shop.<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;All of this went along reasonably well but it was obvious that something was building up in Jacob. He began to feel he was living at the edge of a terrible tyranny of women. To be fair to the poor man he did his best to find some way to release the pressure and stop paranoia blossoming in his mind as a single, overwhelming obsession. But he failed. He became moody. He spent long hours alone in his room. Then one day he got up from a night of broken sleep and changed his mind about everything. He dressed in his old carpentry overalls, stormed into the main part of the house and began shouting at the women. Even Julio, who was often able to calm him, was brushed off to the side. The women scattered like chickens before a diving hawk. Lifting up young children into their arms they rushed out the kitchen door onto the patio.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob stood in the doorway and hurled insults at them. They were deceivers, witches, devils from the nether regions of hell, thieves, manipulators, foul fornicators, workers of dark arts, destroyers of the minds of men, evil, devouring vulvas, depraved monsters. He would have no more to do with them. He would have no more to do with their money sucking brats, their one long endless meal, their decorations and renovations, their whinings and wheedlings, their cajolings, their cunning, their steady, inexorable chisellings. All this he was leaving behind him. All this he was now, at this very moment and forever, banishing from his mind. “No more!” he screeched at them in a spray of spittle. “No more you evil, torturing, squeezing bitches. No more!” And with that he collapsed in a heap in the doorway.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The women had watched this performance quite dispassionately as if they were watching a speech given by a politician from Manila. But when he collapsed they rushed in a body to see if he was dead. He wasn’t. He was breathing regularly and his pulse was strong. Mama sent one of the daughters for the doctor. The older sister brought a blanket and spread it out on the floor beside him. They tugged and rolled him until he was lying face up on the blanket and lifted him up with many hands and carried him into the bedroom. They laid him on his bed, positioning his hands on his stomach as if he were laid out in his coffin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the doctor came out of the bedroom into the kitchen he said that Jacob was perfectly healthy. “The man is as sound as a two year old donkey.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And of much the same nature,” Julia replied.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The doctor laughed. After pocketing his fee, delicately folded into a linen envelope, he wrote a prescription for a sedative. “Three days in bed,” he said. “All that shouting and frothing at the mouth is hard on the system.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jacob was enervated by his bout of rage. He lay quietly in his bed studying the ceiling while the pills the doctor gave him loosened his muscles and set his mind pleasantly drifting. Julio sat by his bedside reading one of his textbooks. His concentration was intense. He turned the pages with a deft movement of his right hand. After watching him for a while Jacob reached over, covered the text with his hand and looked into Julio’s face, a pleasant, evenly featured face every bit as beautiful as Julia’s. “I am afraid, my dear Julio, that for many years I have been wrongly maligning the Jews. What are they, after all, but poor fellow wanderers seeking to place their feet firmly on the ground wherever their ill stared fate has led them? For this they should be hated? I don’t think so. Hereafter my policy will be not to love them, for that would be condescending, but to create for them in my mind a warm limbo of nonjudgment where they can be free to be whatever they are going to be. As there is, apart from myself, not a single Jew in this town or even on this island, they will not notice my change of heart but I will and that is what counts.” Then he smiled and Julio smiled back. He removed his hand from the book, replaced it with the other on his stomach and went to sleep.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He did not rise from his bed for three days. Julia looked after him. She was careful not to say anything which might upset him and he himself avoided all contentious subjects. He asked her about the children. He talked about the weather, wondering why it was that the people here on the island dreaded the rainy season while he, a foreigner, loved it dearly. He told her of his childhood when he and his brothers slid down snow covered hills on a wooden toboggan and made snowballs with their mittened hands to hurl at one another. He spoke of his mother, a large, warm hearted woman whose sons teased her mercilessly. He asked her to bring him an umbrella from the market and gave her two one hundred dollar bills from the drawer beside the bed. He told her to spend what was left over on clothing for the children.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When he rose on the fourth morning, before breakfast and his morning coffee, for a great necessity lay upon him, Jacob removed all the furniture from the study excepting the roll top desk holding his personal papers. Julia, mama and a staying over cousin helped him carry it out the back door and put it in the storage shed. The women wanted to clean the resulting dusty corners but he would not allow them. He took broom, dustpan, mop and pail from the closet off the kitchen and cleaned the room himself. When he was done he had breakfast on the patio and then walked to the lumber store pulling one of the toddlers along behind him in a bright blue wagon.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That afternoon a truck delivered a pile of lumber and plastic bags filled with nails and hardware. Jacob had the men carry the lumber through the house and lay it on the floor of the study. When they were gone, after mama had fed them cinnamon buns and coffee at the kitchen table and Jacob tucked tips into their pockets at the door, he began constructing a workbench along one wall of the room. It took him three days to finish and then he put a series of shelves and pegboards above it on the wall. The women kept peeking in to see what he was doing but they did not ask any questions, fearing it might set him off. They watched him silently for a few moments and then left. When the toddlers came he did not chase them away. He sat them in the corner and gave them blocks and wood shavings to play with.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When everything was finished he closed the door and would not let any adults see inside for two months. He spent ten hours a day inside the room he now referred to as the shop. When the toddlers knocked on the door and called his name he let them in and reclosed the door. When they were tired of playing with the blocks he gave them he let them out again. Sometimes he went to the lumber store and brought back chunky blocks of wood. In the evening he strolled along the beach stopping to look at the fishing boats pulled up on the sandy beach.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the two months were up he opened the door and thereafter seldom closed it. Everyone came to look. The toddlers squeezed through the legs of the women and headed for the corner where Jacob had left a pile of ends and shavings. Along the workbench was a line of fishing boats carved from softwood and painted the same bright colours the fishermen painted their own boats. There were masts, tiny sails, oars, and figures of fishermen, some looking off over the sea, others leaning over the gunwales pulling up their nets. There were twenty or so, all of slightly different sizes and designs. They were propped up with small chocks. They were awash in the soft light of the day glow lamps Jacob hung from the ceiling, and, as he had painted the top of the bench blue, it was as if they were floating upon a magically created, strangely calm, indoor sea. The women’s eyes grew as round as saucers. They entered the room and spread themselves out along the bench peering closely, sucking in their breath in silent admiration.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; The next day while Jacob was drinking his morning coffee with Julia on the patio, he handed her a letter. The letter gave her sole rights to the mortgages he had signed a few years before. It listed them – the lawyer cousin had done this for him – in a long column extending to a second page. It was notarized by the lawyer, signed by Jacob and witnessed by two clerks in the lawyer’s office. Julia read the letter, thanked him very solemnly and kissed him on the cheek. What was hers practically was now hers in the eyes of the law. She showed the letter to her mother and put it away in the safe.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;In his sixty-fifth year Jacob took a piece of white wood and etched upon its surface “Forgive me dear Jews”, first in English and then, below in letters the same size, in Latin. The translation was supplied by the lawyer who spent his Saturday afternoons reading Tacitus and Ovid in the original. Lettering complete, he framed it with a thin border of mahogany and hung it on the wall above his workbench.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Julia saw the plaque she asked him what it meant. “The Jews whom I hated for so many years have redeemed me,” he said. It was obvious from Julia’s expression that she did not understand but he gave no further explanations.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Julia came into the kitchen her mother asked, “What did he say?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Something about Jews and redeeming but I really don’t understand it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Seems a strange thing to put up on the wall when there is not a Jew within a hundred miles. Did he do bad things to them when he was young?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. He just hated them. He feels bad because he hated them. I suppose the plaque is a propitiation, a kind of blood payment. Maybe they do that where he comes from.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Mama said nothing but she was worried Jacob might be going crazy again. Perhaps all the carving was only a temporary abatement of his madness. For her the Jews were people she heard about in school who had a tiny country half way round the world. To make plaques asking them for forgiveness as if they were spirits floating around in the air, seemed to her not quite sane.<br />PAGE <br /><br /><br />PAGE &nbsp;58<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-2315399866765379542012-05-29T18:31:00.001-07:002012-05-29T18:31:44.965-07:00Cornelius' Departure<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Cornelius’ Departure<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The night his first wife, dead sixteen years, three days and fourteen hours, knocked on the door of the security wall surrounding Cornelius’ compound was a disturbing one. The time elapsed since her death had included his fifty-fourth into his seventieth year. The watchman who answered the door, a distant cousin of his second wife, didn’t recognize her for he had never seen her in the land of the living. But as the dead woman was dressed well and spoke her request to have Cornelius summoned in a clear, educated diction, he let her into the warm watchman’s shed while he went off to the main house to talk to the boss. It was raining, a cold, steady rain coming down in a medium drone for so many days now that it seemed to Raoul, the watchman, that it had always been raining and sunny days, or even cloudy rainless days, were a distant dream.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelius was in his bedroom and just about to disrobe and climb into bed when the knock came on the door.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What kind of woman?” he asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“About thirty. Black hair, hazel eyes. She’s wearing a heavy cloak and over that a slicker like fishermen wear. The slicker is even blacker than her hair.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Face?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Pretty. Pale. In fact, when I think of it, exceptionally pale.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;A description general enough to include any of a thousand women in the city surrounding.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No name?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She refused to give one. Said it would be indelicate.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This was not a word Raoul would ordinarily use. It’s vagueness, the lack of a concrete object to hang its hat on, so to speak, would normally have aroused in him a mild disgust. Cornelius decided that the woman must be more than pretty; she must be beautiful. For Raoul, who had an eye for women, her beauty would make the word real for him.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Very well. Show her into the first parlor.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Raoul smiled a thin smile that was very close to being a smirk. Perhaps he thought it amusing that such a beautiful young woman would come to visit such an old man late at night. If so Cornelius found the smile deplorable and was about to say something but Raoul, realizing that his expression had let slip an emotion he should be concealing, assumed his usual passionless mask, did an about turn and marched quickly through the door. Five minutes later, after washing his face and hands and combing his hair in the adjoining bathroom, Cornelius followed.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The first parlor was left off the entrance vestibule, a smallish room with two sofas pulled up to a wood burning fireplace. In addition to the entrance off the vestibule there was a door at the rear off a corridor leading to the stair descending to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters. Cornelius entered through this door, first clearing his throat for he thought it proper to announce himself before entering a room where a guest awaits, especially if it is a woman.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Wood and paper were always laid and Raoul must have lit it for she was sitting on the nearest sofa gazing into the fire. She did not turn towards him though it was clear from the tilt of her head, the line of her shoulders that she heard him but deliberately decided to slow her response. She didn’t turn full toward him until he reached the sofa. Always one to milk a dramatic situation, Sophia. After all it is seldom that a wife, dead sixteen years, returns to confront her husband.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good evening, Cornelius.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good evening, my dear.” Cornelius replied as if she had just returned, perhaps, from a visit to her sister’s, a day’s ride north. Cornelius was a polite man and thought it appropriate in such a bizarre situation to let the dead party set the tone.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You have a new watchman I see.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I do.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A dull witted, phlegmatic type.”<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelius thought about this for a moment and then replied, “Raoul could be described as comfortable in his groove but I wouldn’t call him dull witted. The opposite, I’m afraid – very clever.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I believe he thinks me a lady of the night.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And indeed you are, Sophia, though a different from the kind Raoul is thinking.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So you still entertain ladies of the night, Cornelius?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“On occasion but not here. I go there.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And your present wife?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dead to me as you are Sophia. She lives in the guest wing and we see each other once a week for dinner.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She was too young, Cornelius. Such a thing was inevitable. Does she have a lover?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I believe Raoul is her lover.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not much of an improvement.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Although he looks older, Raoul is only forty.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And you, Cornelius, how old are you?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Seventy.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“An old man.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you feel as if you are an old man?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sometimes, but mostly no.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sometimes?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“In the mornings, for instance, when I first get out of bed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Come sit by me,” she said, patting the sofa seat beside her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’ll sit, but not there,” Cornelius said. He walked behind her and sat on the other sofa at the end closest to her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Shy, are we?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You are dead, Sophia. It’s only natural I prefer to keep a certain distance between us.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“There was a certain distance between us when I was alive, Cornelius.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. But isn’t there always a certain distance between two living beings even if they are lovers or husband and wife?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Always the philosophical one, Cornelius.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m afraid I don’t see the philosophy, Sophia. What I said was merely a commonplace observation.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Sophia took this mild rebuke without offence, smiling into the fire. After examining it for a moment, studying the play of blue and yellow flames licking up from the growing char, she said. &nbsp;“You are forgetting your manners, Cornelius. You should offer me tea and a bite to eat.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The dead eat?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I eat.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This surprised Cornelius but then he supposed if she could walk and speak she very well may eat as well so he left the room by the back door and descended the stair into the empty kitchen. He made tea and assembled a tray of bread and butter, cold chicken, cookies and an apple. When the tea was steeped he set it on the tray and, returning to Sophia, placed it on the coffee table before her. Without a word she set to consuming the contents of the tray with a steady yet unhurried determination until it was all gone. Then she poured herself a cup of tea and, balancing cup and saucer on one knee, leaned back on the sofa.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Thank you, Cornelius. It’s been a long time since I ate last.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How long?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, some years I suppose.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do the dead eat in their graves?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No but when they rise from them they do.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Rise?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The word as simple description. No religious connotations. Are you still an atheist? They say men become religious when they grow old.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not an atheist. Not even an agnostic. I’m not interested in intellectual speculations anymore.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well if you’ve left the intellect behind then what about feeling, Cornelius? Have you left that behind as well?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. I have come to see that the feelings of the moment which I once looked upon with distain, as our only reality.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So no God?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“One part of me has no argument with God but another sees Him as obviously a projection of the human ego. Filling the universe with projections seems to me a kind of horror show yet, on the whole, it’s what we seem to do.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So that we are not alone?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “I suppose, although for me having relationships with imaginary beings is far worst than being alone. But what about you, Sophia? Do the dead have insights into these matters?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not really. Women, as you know Cornelius, have a connection to the sensate world few men have. That suffices for many of us and I am one of them. Although I can’t claim to speak for the others, death brought me no revelations or mystical insights.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what was it like to lay there for sixteen years, my dear?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Four weeks only, Cornelius, and then I left the grave. During those four weeks I had no consciousness of passing time, just a kind of steady hum, so to speak, not at all disagreeable.”<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelius did not reply to this. He felt that it would be impolite to ask for the details of her disinterment and inquisitorial to ask what she had been doing since that time. He glanced at the tray thinking he might fill the gap in conversation with a cookie but they were all gone. Even the teapot, a glass one, was empty. In life Sophia, despite her trim figure, her long, lithely muscled body, had been a hearty eater. It seems she was so even in death.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You will be wondering what I have been doing since I left the grave, Cornelius. And perhaps also how I left the grave. You were always curious, a man hungry for details.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Now that you bring it up I must admit that I am curious.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then you will be disappointed. The dead know as little as the living it seems. As far as leaving the grave goes one moment I was in it and then the next I was out, standing on the bank of a river, with heavy twilight coming down. How I got there or by what process, I am truly ignorant.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But no one reported a disturbance of the grave. Surely the caretakers would have noticed?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Of that I know nothing. I have never returned to the churchyard. Why should I? Perhaps the grave might reopen and swallow me up.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But where have you been in the meantime, Sophia?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Close by, actually. As you know some ways up the river there is an area of wasteland inhabited by a few impoverished rural people. I have a cottage there at the edge of the moor.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But how could you afford a cottage?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Jewelry, Cornelius. You seem to have forgotten how much you loved me, dear man. You buried me with all my rings, bracelets, broaches, necklaces, pendants and whatever. A small fortune. Not to one who lives grandly like yourself but to a poor cottager more than enough.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You sold them, then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Of course. I hitched a ride on a river barge to the great city and sold them there. You will remember that I knew jewelry very well.” &nbsp; “Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “And I knew from my previous time in the great city where to go, who to deal with.” &nbsp; “Yes, of course.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I was a courtesan, Cornelius.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Yes, I know.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You know but you were never comfortable with me mentioning it, were you?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, but that’s my upbringing, Sophia. You will have to forgive me. Believe me I have never for a moment judged you or thought lesser of you because of it.” &nbsp; “I know that, Cornelius. And the arts my past brought with me to the marriage were not to be despised, were they dear?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not at all, Sophia. Rather they were to be treasured and applauded. For nine years we were happy together and surely our sexual joy, our satisfaction in our play together was the fundament of our happiness. One sees this even more clearly as we get older.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I wouldn’t know Cornelius. After all I’m only thirty.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And the sixteen years?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Seems not to have had the least effect.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelius took his eyes from the fire and looked at her closely. For a moment the afterimage of the coloured flames moved across the surface of her face but then vanished to reveal the very pale skin as smooth and perfect as porcelain. Its paleness was accentuated by the frame of black hair drawn up in a chignon secured by a delicate silver comb; accentuated to such a degree that the skin shone with a kind of mild luminescence. She was right. In fact, if anything, Sophia seemed younger than the last time he remembered seeing her in the bloom of healthy young womanhood.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I suppose the dead, being dead, do not age.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “I suppose,” she replied.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelius rose and put a log on the fire. With the poker he positioned it in the center of the flames and pressed it down. When he came back to the sofa, Sophia was standing.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have to be going now, Cornelius.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Surely not.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes I do. Most surely in fact.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you sleep in your grave, Sophia?”<br /><br />&nbsp; “No, no. I sleep in a stone room completely devoid of light but not in the grave. I built the room onto the cottage with my own hands. I am afraid that although I look quite alive that I am a creature of shadows. I can tolerate mild daylight and can go about for an hour or two on cloudy, rainy days but on most days I sleep in the room.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But you eat, Sophia.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, dear, I do. But the daylight is not for me and dawn not far away.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I could drive you in the car.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have my own car waiting at the gate.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But perhaps I could accompany you nonetheless.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why, Cornelius? The dead don’t fear the dark and there is nothing I fear any longer from the living.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I was not thinking of that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then of what?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I would like the pleasure of your company.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They were in the vestibule. Sophia retrieved her cloak and slicker from the closet, settling the cloak loosely about her shoulders. She looked at Cornelius sharply. He hadn’t aged much. He was a bit stooped, yes, but his bony, aquiline face would strangely belie his years for some time to come. He was gazing at her with a steady, expectant patience.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I am dead, Cornelius.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then why did you come?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“For old time’s sake I suppose.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The old times are the things which are truly dead, Sophia.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That may be but so am I.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But you walk about; you smile; you speak. How can you be dead?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t know. I just know that I am no longer connected to the living.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Neither am I, dear Sophia.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I inhabit the night, Cornelius. Storms and clouds are my sunshine, bright day my fear and avoidance. I breath, apparently, but only shallowly. Sometimes I wonder what I breath. Particles of dark perhaps. Yet I don’t perceive the dark in the same way the living do. It is my natural milieu, my comfort. I do not age. Surely this cuts me off from the living whose iron law is aging. I eat with relish, yes, but I suspect this is merely habit. I am not a natural creature, Cornelius. I speak to the living in a series of symbols I must consciously remember the meaning of. I spent the first five years in my cottage without seeing or speaking to a soul and felt not the slightest lack. I do not lust after the living like the popular tales say the dead do. I have no desire for blood, either human or animal. Yet I am not a normal living being. If there is blood moving in my veins it does not move in the way it used to do. I still have my beauty but it is the beauty of a stone. I see in your eyes that you see it as a precious stone but a precious stone is still a stone.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Still, I would accompany you.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Where?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“To your cottage.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And sleep in a cold stone room with a dead woman?” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. To talk to a dead woman when she awakes in the evening.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Meagre fare, dear man, for one as hot blooded as you used to be.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“My want of women in that way is dying.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But not dead?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well then,” she said and put her hand upon the door handle.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Perhaps just as far as the moor.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I suppose, if you must. You were kind enough to receive me. I can at least give you that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; So Cornelius left with Sophia but he did not part with her at the moor. He went with her to the cottage and the two of them lived together there not as husband and wife but as brother and sister. His people assumed he was dead. A brooding, eccentric man, no doubt he slipped himself into the waters of the moor to avoid the sufferings of old age. When the legally required time had elapsed he was declared deceased and his wife inherited. &nbsp;A month later she married Raoul.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The cottage has one glass window. Its light can be seen for miles across the flat moor land it inhabits. Lit by two candles and the open fireplace it shines all night long no matter what the weather or the time of year. Sometimes, during the day, a man can be seen in the yard; an old man sawing and splitting wood he gathers from a series of poplar copses a quarter mile distant. He waves if someone waves to him but if approached he makes it quite clear that he is not interested in conversation or human company.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Some say in the heavy twilight they have seen the old man walking with a young beautiful woman. The more bestial among them say she is his incubus which he has called from the infernal regions to satisfy his lust. But most believe this to be a nasty invention arising from their own morbid desires and projected onto a harmless old man who prefers to spend his last few years alone, away from others. He comes to the little village twice a year for supplies. He is polite but distant and leaves immediately once his business is completed.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Occasionally local boys make an excursion to creep toward the window on dark nights, to peer in and discover its mysteries, but as they exit the bushes into the open yard, croaching low to conceal themselves, they become seized by such an awful fear they turn and run the two miles back to the road at breakneck speed. They are too ashamed of their cowardice to make up stories of what they saw, or rather, what they did not see. They make a pact of silence between themselves and honor it.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;What they would see, if fear did not prevent them from crossing the yard, is the simplest of all things &nbsp;- a man and woman sitting before a fire at a round table eating bread and cheese and drinking tea. They are companionable, interrupting their meal frequently to speak to one another in a lively manner. The man is old but somehow in their communications age is lifted from his shoulders and tossed into one of the darkened corners. The woman is young, pale and beautiful. Her beauty is the striking beauty men sometimes see from across a room, a beauty which leaves them shattered and reminds them how deep their loneliness is and how impossible the chasm they must cross to relieve it.<br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-18755335514643703932012-05-29T18:28:00.002-07:002012-05-29T18:28:58.340-07:00Double<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Double<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jason Bouganville was seventy-five when he had his first exhibition in his hometown. Fortunately he had been selling out of galleries far away on the east coast for forty years, earning a modest income, which, considering his frugality and the simplicity of his way of living, was more than enough. His works were expressionist, not a popular taste in his part of the country where gallery bread and butter were realist paintings of animals, grain elevators and nostalgic depictions of cowboys and Indians. In his selling city his name was well known among people concerning themselves with painting and the arts, but in his hometown, excepting for a handful of friends and fellow painters, he was unknown. He preferred it that way. Although he had been asked many times he never went to the big city he sold in. “They get the paintings,” he would tell his frustrated agent on the phone. “If they want a smoozer, hire an actor.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the owner of the gallery, a young man with more family money than artistic discernment, first approached him Jason said no but his friends ganged up on him, claiming he was paranoid, falsely modest, a revengeful egoist, ungrateful, unpatriotic, a big phony, lacking in the courage of his convictions and so on. This did not disturb him unduly for he was old enough to realize he was all of these things in some measure and also that the pull of fame is often stronger for its friends than for the central applicant. He gave in. He allowed one of his painter pals to negotiate a contract with the gallery owner and when he was handed the contract at a dinner party at his friend’s house, he gave it a cursory glance and signed. He was therefore unaware that he had signed a document committing him to attend the first full day of the ten day exhibition and did not find out until six months later. Included in the envelope the owner sent him three weeks before the opening was a copy of the contract and a personal note saying how much the owner was looking forward to making his acquaintance. Jason was horrified.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He knew not to complain to his friend who had negotiated the contract. After all, the personal appearance clause was standard and Jason was the one who signed the contract without reading it properly. &nbsp;If he complained to his friends in general they would simply reaccuse him of all the things they accused him of before which would be a ridiculous waste of time. If he complained to Evelyn, his wife, she would pour over his head buckets of sarcasm and drollery; if to his agent in the far away city, cynical snickers, a lecture for allowing an amateur to negotiate a contract and a powerful undercurrent of it serves you right. He had no one to turn to so he explained the whole thing to the dog who was very understanding and sympathetic. At the end of ten minutes of salty complaints the dog licked one of the bony shins sticking out of his baggy army surplus shorts. Jason patted him on the head, fed him two wieners and forgot about the whole thing for several days.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Sometimes with knotty problems the best thing is to ignore them for a while. Something just might happen so that the problem solves itself. This is what happened in Jason’s case. A week before the show was to open he was sitting on the front deck drinking a cup of tea when his brother drove up the driveway.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert, Jason’s brother, was a wanderer who had started wandering when he was sixteen and now, at the age of seventy, was still wandering. He was an industrial mechanic and had spent most of his work life up north in the mines. Since his retirement, at age sixty, he traveled the country, coast to coast, in an old quarter ton with a camper on the back. Sometimes he stayed with friends in the east who took him out on fishing boats. Sometimes he helped an old pal seed on his farm in the Peace River country. In the early spring he helped work a salmon weir in BC. Last summer, he and three friends made a raft and floated down the Saskatchewan. When he retired he built a straw bale cabin at the back of Jason’s land where he spent two months in the summer and three or four in the winter. When Robert was in residence for even a week there would be more visitors than Jason had in a whole year. He had twelve children by four different women, and these children all had children of their own. So numerous were they that Jason had a file of their names and birthdays. There were fifty-seven grandchildren and ten great grandchildren. &nbsp;It cost Jason several thousand dollars a year to give them birthday and Christmas presents, an expense he paid out gladly; he and his wife, Evelyn, looked with horror upon a child’s birthday passing without a substantial present. &nbsp;Evelyn bought the girl’s presents and he the boy’s. There were thirty boys and twenty-seven girls. Surrounding Robert’s cabin was a motley collection of old trailers with flattened tires and campers sitting atop poplar pole sawhorses. In the warm season when Robert was home they were filled with children aged three to eighteen.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jason took two steaks from the freezer as he always did when Robert arrived and they had supper together. Later they had tea on the deck. When Jason had listened to the latest travel stories – Robert had been down in the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico – he said, “Robbie your truck needs the engine rebuilt.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I know.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How much for the parts?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A thousand or so.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have an easy way for you to make a thousand dollars. Actually fifteen hundred so you can replace your fenders.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert looked at him suspiciously. He asked, “Doing what?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Jason explained.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No,” said Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why not?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I wouldn’t know what to say. All that art lingo.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I could coach you with a foolproof system. You wouldn’t have to learn a single new word.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert was watching the dog sneaking up on the cows munching grass on the other side of the barbed wire fence. “My lifters are bad and she’s starting to burn a lot of oil.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you want to hear my system?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You don’t say a word until someone says something to you. This is what they’ll say. ‘Jason, that painting with the yellow splotches, it’s just marvelous!’ You say, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.’ They say, ‘I do think it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.’ You pause for a moment and then say, ‘You know I think you might just be right.’ That’s it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“ ‘Thank you.’ ‘That’s very kind of you.’ And ‘I think you just might be right’?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. That’s all you need.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what if they ask me some weird questions?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You pause, look out the window or at least off into the middle distance, and say, ‘What do you think?’ When they answer you say, ‘You know, I’ve never really looked at it that way but I believe you may just be right.’ “<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what if someone asks personal questions?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They won’t because they don’t know me. I’ll let the ten or twelve friends who might show up in on the deal. They won’t bother you. If somebody wants to set up a meeting say you are going away for six months. If they insist on a phone number give them Evelyn’s. If you are in a quandary act confused and ask them to get you a coffee. Most people assume everyone with white hair and wrinkles is senile. Just smile in a vague way and they will go away figuring the show is a way to raise money for medical treatment or funeral expenses.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“When?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“In two weeks.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Can I order the parts right away or do I have to wait until after the show?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Right away.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK. It’s a deal.” They shook hands.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The parts arrived in three days. Jason helped Robert with the overhaul. He handed him wrenches and held things in place. When it was finished they drove to the wreckers and bought two fenders. When they were installed Robert built a poplar pole structure over the truck and covered it with plastic. Then he filled a few spots, sanded, masked and gave it three coats of paint with the air gun. When it was dry he removed the structure and called Jason over to take a look.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Like brand new,” said Jason.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. It turned out fine.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She’ll be on the road another ten years.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“At least.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The day before opening day Robert came over to Jason’s cabin for supper. “Nervous?” Jason asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A little.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Don’t be, Robbie. Think of it as an adventure. There is no way you can mess it up. We look so much alike even if you just stand there and nod they will assume you are being my reputed obtuse and uncommunicative self. Which is fine. They will think you are concealing some marvelous enigma. Not only a terrible hermit but an enigmatic terrible hermit. It will increase sales by ten percent.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Robert arrived at the gallery the owner put him in a corner furnished with three armchairs and a coffee table. Robert tried all three chairs until he found the most comfortable. He was tired. The night before he stayed up late watching a movie. He took two throw cushions from the other chairs and made himself more comfortable. He snuggled down, laid his head on one of the cushions atop the arm and went to sleep.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;An hour later the owner, very nervous and diffident, woke him by gently nudging his shoulder. When Robert opened his eyes the owner said, “Jason, I’m terribly sorry to wake you but there is a critic here from the paper.” Robert sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked around.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Where is he?” he asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; A middle aged man suddenly appeared from behind the owner’s shoulder. <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Jason, this is Triponious Fiddler. Triponious, Jason,” said the owner, turning on his heel and walking quickly away. Jason and Triponious shook hands and then sat down.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The figures in Streamline No 6 remind me of the emotive projections of Klee,” said Triponious.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Very nice of you to say so,” said Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I find the horizontal explorations fascinating. Could it be that they mark a new departure in your work?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What do you think?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What I mean is that up until now your work has always pivoted on the vertical distributing mass according to its stern, almost classical demands. If you are now morphing to a emotionally projective horizontality and twisting this into a kind of grasping for space in the middle ground, then this would be a radical departure similar to the spirally metrical hypertensions Gingle experimented with in his later career.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert paused for a moment and then said, “You know I think you may just be right.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I find the apex distributions in number 10 spiritually illuminating.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Very kind of you.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Were you trying to give a signature to the dimensionalities in the foreground or did you see them as a deliberately non directional approach as in the Winter Garden series of your middle work.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What do you think?” said Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, if it is a non directional approach it creates a new role for the mass nexus in the left middle ground and throws into brilliant relief the motivating texture references which I think is a totally fascinating and completely radical solution to the troublesome problem of coordinating spectral tintinnabulations.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert paused and then said, “You know I do believe you have hit it directly on the head.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; They went on for some time in this fashion, the critic pausing now and again to write furiously in a notebook balanced on the arm of his chair. When they were done Triponious and Robert rose from their chairs and shook hands. The critic was ecstatic. “Jason, you have a reputation for being difficult and deliberately obtuse but I have found you delightful, most helpful and wonderfully communicative. Thank you.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Very kind of you,” said Robert.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the critic left two elderly ladies came forward. They each sat down in one of the armchairs.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Do these paintings mean anything?” asked the older.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “O no,” said Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Are they simply ravings, then?” asked the other.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What do you think?” asked Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Most likely. They seem to be the overflow of a diseased mind.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You are probably right,” said Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A type of farcical satire played upon the forces of order and discipline,” said the older.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No doubt,” said Robert.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The ladies rose. They looked at him in the way nineteenth century missionaries might have looked at a tribesman who had just described his orgiastic sexual practices. Before going the older leaned towards him and asked in a voice filled with mild anguish, “Are you not even the least bit ashamed?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O yes,” said Robert, smiling foolishly. “Terribly, terribly ashamed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the old ladies left four young persons stepped up, two male, two female. “You are Jason Bouganville?” asked one of the women.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Today, yes.” replied Robert. The young people, very serious lovers of art, took this as a mystical utterance and nodded their heads in unison which reminded Robert of the German clock hanging above Jason’s work table. It was covered with tiny doors which opened at certain hours to reveal mechanical figures chopping wood, sawing boards and walking on the spot in a rolling, exaggerated gait while carrying a pail of water from the well. When the young people had finished nodding, a procedure which went on for some time past what Robert thought to be called for, or even normal, one of the men said,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Mr. Bouganville, we find your work most stimulating.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert, who associated the word stimulating exclusively with the naked images of women which he sometimes watched on the porno channel in the evening, guffawed loudly, then began a series of chokings and coughings which he brought to a close by withdrawing from his pocket a gigantic red mechanic’s rag into which he blew his nose in an unrestrained, trumpet like manner. This brought on more noddings from the young persons who seemed to be indicating that they were well versed in the habits of artists and knew well of the vigorous and sometimes socially unacceptable behavior which often accompanies those who immerse themselves in seminal creative activity.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you show in your studio, Mr. Bouganville?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert didn’t know what to say to this so he asked, “Do you think one of you guys could get me a coffee?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Certainly,” they all said in unison and went off, all four of them, coming back a few minutes later. The woman who was carrying the coffee put it on the table in front of him. “Very kind of you,” said Robert, who in their absence had decided that there was no way that hermit Jason would want these people in his ‘studio’ which meant his very messy cabin with paint splotches all over the walls and even on the windows. So he gave them Evelyn’s phone number. Evelyn, essentially a very kindly person, was, on Jason’s behalf, a tigress who would tell the President that Jason wasn’t available presently but that if he left his number he might call him back. Might. He stood to shake the hands of the departing young persons whose hands were very dry and who applied what he thought must be the correct minimum of polite pressure.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Robert got back to the cabin, Jason was painting his front steps. Robert climbed out of the truck and walked up to where he was working. “Well, how did it go?” asked Jason.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good, I think. I even got in three hours sleep.” Jason thought this a nice touch. Aging artist, worn out by the vigours of art, taking an autumnal nap.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Evelyn came out the next Saturday for supper. When Jason came up to meet her as she was climbing out of the car, she said, “You naughty, naughty man.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Now, Evelyn. I’m an old man and claim the right to fill in the forms in the easiest way possible. And from what I hear Robert did a very good job.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Excellent,” said Evelyn. “Far better than you would have done. You would have insulted the critic, giving him one of your tedious lectures on the evils of jargon and gotten a very bad review. Whatever Robert said to him he gave you a glowing review, an entire Saturday Art’s page.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Well, there you go!” said Jason.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The sales from the show were far better than Jason expected. He gave Robert five hundred dollars to buy tires for the truck. When he tried to refuse it, Jason said, “I sold four times what I thought I would sell and that is due to you. This is just your cut. You are my brother and know well that I am a miserable old man and not into performing charitable acts.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Robert took the five one hundred dollar bills and put them in his wallet. He was surrounded by a coterie of seven or eight grandchildren whose avid eyes had picked up the numbers off the bills before he could put them away. They began agitating for a special treat. After some negotiation with the children, Robert and Jason decided to split the cost of taking them into the little town nearby for Kentucky Fried Chicken and a movie. The movie, fortunately, was an mildly violent space opera, which even the six year old could watch having to place her hands over her eyes only three times during the whole performance.<br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-855333779145831592012-05-29T18:26:00.003-07:002012-05-29T18:27:00.750-07:00Potatoes<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Potatoes<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre disliked the manager as much as anyone but to stuff three potatoes into the exhaust pipe of his Volvo seemed a little much. Childish she thought but didn’t speak the word out loud. To survive in an office you must be politic and the universal opinion was that he richly deserved it. He did. But still it seemed to Diedre that such pranks said more about their perpetrator than their victim, or at least as much.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;No one knew who did it. Whoever it was, was a great dissimulator, for Diedre, a very astute and perceptive young woman, could not come up with even an intelligent guess. She knew she didn’t do it but otherwise she could not rule out a single one of the twenty six people working in the office. Or the three temporary workers filling in for people on vacation and the one temp doing a mat leave. Anyone could have done it including the manager who was quite capable of pulling off such a stunt for perverse reasons of his own. Possibly it could have something to do with his wife, a thin, worried woman. She and the manager were constantly at war. Everyone on staff were occasionally subjected to the manager’s lectures on his wife’s supposedly twisted character. Considering the source, most privately considered his wife to be, in all likelihood, a sane and balanced woman. He could have stuffed the potatoes himself in order to provoke pity. This would be ridiculous for if he invoked anything by such an act it would be derision not pity. But the manager was not one to see himself as others saw him. His could not be trusted to think clearly in such matters.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; The potatoes did terrible things to the Volvo. The repairs amounted to several thousands and when they were done he traded it in for another. As it was a company car this did not cost him a penny. In fact he benefited for he exchanged a three year old for a brand new Volvo. The big boss, far off in an eastern city, didn’t seem to care. The operation made lots of money. A few extra thousand in expenses could easily be buried in a mountain of several millions.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager played the aggrieved victim to the hilt. He went from worker to worker explaining his hurt and perplexity. Why would someone do such a thing to him? After all was he not a good boss? Did he not treat everyone with respect? Did he not give them a present (from company funds) on their birthdays? Did he not send them flowers (again, from company funds) when they were in the hospital? Did he not provide them with a lavish Christmas party complete with presents, Santa Claus, and strippers, male for the females, female for the males? Did he not make himself available to listen to their personal problems? Did he not remember the names of their husbands, wives, and children so that his relationship with his employees did not lack the personal touch? And now this. Now betrayal.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This was very painful to the employees for no matter how lugubrious his performance they could not laugh, excepting of course when they got home and described his antics to their partners or friends. While they were listening to the manager they had to put on a commiserating face and drive all levity from their minds. As one could imagine the effort was staggering. And, even worst, when he was finished they had to assure him that this was an isolated act, obviously performed by a psychotic, and was no reflection at all on the quality of his leadership. They had no option but to reassure him, messaging his injured ego with the heavy oils of lies and flattery. Thus their days were poisoned with self disgust and everyone spent at least a half hour in the evening examining the classifieds for positions with other companies.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;At first the manager claimed he did not want to know who did it. He was above that kind of pettiness, floating upon a sea of injured dignity and benevolent self restraint. This did not last for long. He soon developed a theory that it was one of the temporaries who stuffed the potatoes. Day laborers with no true connection to the company, they were the ones most likely to be subject to envy, jealousy and other dark human emotions leading to such an act. The temp company was sloppy in its hiring practices. A sociopath had been allowed to slip through, a viper, a mad dog.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He began to conduct secret researches. He consulted those he considered to be his closest allies, including Diedre. He demanded copies of the personnel files of the temps from their company. This was illegal but he did not care. Neither did the temp company. They were concerned about losing a lucrative contract so they sent the files over by courier the same day they were requested. Everything in them was average, normal, unremarkable. But then what would you expect? A sociopath doesn’t know he is a sociopath. This is one of the essential conditions of being a sociopath. But even if they did know they would hardly insist it be entered in their personnel file, would they? For then they would have no job and no need for a personnel file. He read the files through three times and then made Diedre go through them as well. There was nothing.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Then the manager, in one of his sessions with Diedre, suddenly began banging himself on the forehead and calling himself, dumb, stupid, idiotic, half witted and so on.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Concentrating on the temps has blinded me,” he declared. “After all, dear Diedre, most murders are committed by persons close to the victim. After all, why would a passion of murder spring up between strangers?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager’s revelation meant they had to go through the personnel files of all the full timers. This took some time for the manager insisted they read everything, even yellowing twenty-five year old evaluations, on the theory (unconsciously absorbed from TV cop shows) that significant facts could emerge from seemingly irrelevant details. But all this reading led nowhere. The manager demonstrated this to Deidre by opening his empty hands and leaving them that way for several dramatic seconds. Diedre grew suddenly afraid. If she were working for a mad man did this not mean that she was mad herself?<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The personnel files,” said the manager, “are useless. Who would have thought that, in the matter of real information about character, personnel files are pure garbage, detritus, junk, irrelevant. In fact I am coming to the reluctant conclusion that personnel files are useless altogether even when it comes to matters of personnel.” He knit his brows and gave Diedre a piercing look. “And that, Diedre, is a scary thought.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager decided they would have to take a different path. The files were useless. Feedback from his personal spies came up with nothing, ‘nada’ as he put it. Therefore they would have to go to extraordinary lengths. A genuine secret investigation would have to be conducted. No more politeness. No more Mr Nice Guy. Hardball. That was what was called for. Did Diedre not agree? Diedre agreed.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager first thought of hiring an investigating company. There were people who did that sort of thing for an hourly fee, usually ex police officers. These companies claimed they were the soul of discretion but the manager wondered. There were two of these men in his club with whom he occasionally played golf and they were certainly not discreet. Police officers, living lives of occasionally intense activity alternating with long periods of lethargy and boredom, were horrible gossips. How could he entrust company secrets to people like that? Obviously he couldn’t. In no time at all that the company was investigating its employees would be all over the city. Coffee shops would be abuzz. People would speak of nothing else. Impossible. It would be as suicidal as Coca Cola publishing its secret formula in the New York Times.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The investigation would have to be done secretly, by a trusted Lieutenant who had the best interests of both the company and the manager at heart. Nothing else would produce results without the danger of public scandal. Did Diedre agree? Diedre agreed. Good. Then they would start next week.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager put out that Diedre would be attending meetings out of town on Mondays and Tuesdays. These meetings were top secret and had to do with a project no one was to ask her about. If they did ask her the manager would be displeased, most displeased, ragingly displeased. Wednesday through Friday she would be in the office performing her regular duties. Any mention of this project would mean thumbscrews for the mentioner and thumbscrews for those who listened to the mentioner. Did they understand? Yes, they understood. They worked for a mad man who frequently demanded they not do obscure things which they had never had the slightest intention of doing. On this point, like Dick Nixon, they were perfectly clear. Not that they cared much what he was up to. Long ago they decided he was a lunatic. What they themselves were up to were salaries, vacations, RRSPs, and the juicy possibility of a wrongful dismissal suit. If they wished to indulge themselves in conspiracy theories they could go up on the net.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre was instructed to disguise herself as a plainclothes police officer. The manager was vague on detail. Should she wear a black skirt with white blouse and black tie, black hose and a pair of sensible shoes? The manager did not know. How could she expect him to know what plainclothes police officers wore? He didn’t hang around in such circles. She would have to find out for herself. Take some initiative for God’s sakes. Did he always have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s? Did she expect him to suddenly transform himself into a female police officer and demonstrate? No she didn’t. Fine then. Investigate the costume and then afterwards investigate the employees bringing back the name of the potato stuffer. He wanted that name. He needed that name.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The weekend before she was to begin her investigations Diedre thought a great deal about what she was going to do. She did not do this by sitting on the sofa and drinking coffee. Rather she kept busy. Saturday and Sunday afternoons she played softball. Saturday morning she cleaned the apartment. Sunday morning she jogged in the park. Sunday evening she had supper with an old boyfriend, coming home alone early to watch a movie. While she was busy doing all this the sub mind was sifting through all the possibilities, examining, selecting and choosing alternatives. By the time she awoke on Monday morning, her path was clear.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Firstly she would not be conducting any real investigations. It was not her job, she did not want to and even if it were her job and she wanted to, she was not qualified. Police officers are trained. They know something about technique, proper procedure. She did not.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Secondly, even if she were qualified, wanted to and it was her job, she would not do it for she found the thought of sneaking about interviewing neighbors, friends, bartenders, caretakers and so on to be morally repulsive.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Thirdly even if she was qualified, wanted to, it was her job and she did not find it morally repulsive she could not bring herself to do something which would implicate one of her fellow employees whether they were guilty or not. She had no desire to catch the potato stuffer. In fact she rather admired him or her. Besides the task was impossible. How could one find the guilty party from the hopeless jumble of disassociated gossip coming out of such an investigation? The very idea was insane, delusional. So why do it? To kiss the boss’s ass and keep her job was the only answer to that. But was it worth it? That would depend on how much she wanted to keep her job. She did want to keep it but not at the price of conducting such an investigation. But she might be willing to pay the price for pretending to conduct an investigation. Actually, pretending to conduct an investigation might be fun.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; On Monday morning Diedre slept late. When she got up she dressed in weekend clothes – jeans and an old jacket – and walked to the diner around the corner from her apartment for breakfast. She had pancakes and ham. After eating she took a notebook and pen from her briefcase. Seated in a booth at the very back of the restaurant she began making notes. The investigation, according to the manager, was supposed to produce a name but there was little likelihood that it would do so. After all, his own investigation produced nothing. It was just possible that no one from the office stuffed potatoes into the manager’s tailpipe. It may have been a passing juvenile delinquent or even an avenger striking at the manager on the basis of a long ago incident which the manager had forgotten. Or it could be the manager’s wife, who, as far as Diedre could see spent seventy percent of her time hating and refusing to speak to the manager and the other thirty percent wheedling money for clothes and plastic surgery. But one thing was for sure &nbsp;- an investigation did not necessarily have to come up with a name and if it didn’t come up with a name a pretend investigation was just as good as a real one. A pretend no name and a real no name were exactly the same.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre listed all the employees in alphabetical order. When she was finished this she pulled out a pile of file folders and filled in the tabs. On blank sheets of loose paper she began to make up imaginary conversations with ‘informants’ about Joan Arras, the first name on the list. She invented a loosed tongued caretaker who looked after the small block across the lane from Joan and who claimed her to be the sweetest soul on earth, an angel erroneously mixed up with the human beings. A garbage pick up man claimed he had never seen a liquor bottle in Joan’s garbage and that the back of her house was always in impeccable order. A local dry cleaner remembered the time when Joan returned eight blocks to his store to give back one dollar too much mistakenly given her in change. She filled six pages with this bogus reporting carefully noted down in small precise handwriting taught her by the Sisters of Charity of her elementary school days. She remained in the booth until the lunch crowd started coming in. When she started back to the apartment she had filled out reports for two names and started in on the third.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That afternoon Diedre went to a movie and in the evening she played a playoff softball game. When she got up on Tuesday morning she finished the ‘reports’ on the third name and by mid afternoon completed two more. She figured that was enough. She sat down at her computer and typed the lot. She printed two copies putting one in her own file cabinet and the others in five separate folders for the manager. These she put in her briefcase and brought with her to work on Wednesday morning.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager was waiting. As soon as she came in the door he beckoned her to come into his office. She opened her briefcase and handed him the files. He sat down in his high backed chair and began to read. Diedre took the opportunity to begin a series of notes on the sixth name on the list. This was George Dorian, the office wag. George was known, by joyful self identification, as a great user of pornography. She invented an interview with the owner of a porno shop near his apartment building. The owner told her that George never bought perverse pornography, only ‘normal’ pornography by which he meant naked pictures of buxom babes and nubile young females, or those purporting to be such, sunning themselves in the healthy sunshine. No leather or rubber or boots and whips for George. The owner claimed that young men like George who purchased pornography were far less likely to fondle women on public transportation than young men who did not. He quoted four studies from the Kinsey Institute to prove it. She was done this interview and starting another with an imaginary policeman, a friend of George’s since elementary school, who vouched for his integrity, claiming that the use of pornography had no detrimental effects on character development and that it was well known that users were less inclined to commit violent acts than were non users. She was well into the policeman’s ‘report’ when the manager threw the files down on the desk. He gave her an intense look and smiled the cheesy smile he had learned at effective management courses.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Diedre, this is brilliant work.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Thank you,” said Diedre.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Continue on girl. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;So Diedre continued on for three weeks, the Wednesday morning reaction from the manager being much the same but with a slightly diminishing enthusiasm caused by the fact that the names were passing by without one of them being chosen. On the fourth Wednesday he sat reading her latest while she began notes on the last three. The first of these was Alister Villon, the office boy. Because his last name was the same as the 12th century French poet she decided to give a bohemian theme to his list of informants. One was a bartender in a seedy hotel. Another a late night hot dog vendor outside a country and western club. She thought of making the third a stripper but decided that would be going too far. The actual Alister was a shy, pimply faced lad who lived at home with his mother and three sisters and who, other than in his dreams, had no such associations. It was hard to work up a lively story from Alister’s lackluster life. The boy lacked initiative. When the manager dropped the files onto his desk Diedre looked up into his face which he had drawn up into his effective management mask of sorrowful puzzlement. She was surprised, since there were only three names left, that it had taken so long to get to this.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Diedre this work is excellent but unfortunately it has not produced a name.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“This is true, boss,” Diedre replied.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why I wonder?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Not mine to wonder why, Boss. Mine but to do or die.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Very funny Diedre. That’s the Beatles, is it not?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Actually it’s Kipling.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“American, was he?”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Ah….., yes.” Diedre offered up a prayer that Rudyard would not rise up from his grave to haunt her for changing his nationality.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But the question remains doesn’t it Diedre? Why has the investigation produced no name, no culprit, no perp as the TV cops say?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “I am just the investigator, Boss. I do my job step by step and if something happens it happens. If it doesn’t it doesn’t.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A rather fatalistic point of view. Not much get up and go in a view like that, is there? I thought you were the take charge type.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I can’t force a name, Boss. I have to stick with the facts or all is lost.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“True,” said the manager. “The facts are important. If it weren’t for the facts we would be lost in a raging sea of opinion and rhetoric, would we not?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Exactly Boss.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;After a few beats the manager asked, “Where were we?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No name.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Right. Well, there are three left.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Is Villon one of them?”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t want to influence you but still I should tell you that my suspicions fall heavily upon him. He never looks you in the eye. Did you ever notice that, Diedre? People who never look you in the eye, well you start to wonder what they are trying to hide.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre mentally revised Alister’s list of informants to a minister, a school principal and a lawyer. “I’ll be working on him all day Monday, Boss.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good. Be impartial by all means Diedre but let’s not forget the killer instinct, right? Sometimes it’s necessary to take off the gloves and drive a bony fist right into the face of your opponent. Is this not true, Diedre?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Right on, Boss. Don’t worry. I won’t forget.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Sunday evening Diedre was sitting on her sofa reading an exceedingly boring novel when the phone rang. It was Elliot Mercer, a salesman not long away from retirement with thirty years of company service. He wanted to talk to her. “About what?” Diedre asked. He would rather not say over the phone. This sounded a little cloak and daggerish to Diedre but she gave him the address of the building and her apartment number. Elliot lived nearby. The intercom gave its electronic bong fifteen minutes later.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When he arrived at the door she ushered him into the living room. On the table was a tray of tea things and a plate of cookies. Elliot poured himself a cup of tea and ate three cookies. Then he started in.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“When my wife and I were young and even middle aged we were unwise. We were financially reckless. We didn’t save. We maxed out one credit card after another until for five years now one half of our cash income goes out in payments. And still we have significant debt. Reduced, yes, but still enough so that five years of my total cash income would not pay it off. I start with this not to bore you with my personal problems but to give you the background for the proposal I am about to make.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre smiled politely.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The doctors have given me a terminal diagnosis. In two years I will be dead. This is not dramatic speculation but surety. My wife does not work outside the home. She never has. After the kids were gone she put her extra time into volunteer work at the church. Mine is our only income. There is no insurance payment through work in case of death and we have no personal insurance. I will be gone before the pension kicks in and even if I wasn’t there are no survivor payments to the spouse. We own our house but if it were sold it would only pay the debt, hopefully. My wife is younger than I and will not be eligible to receive old age pension and social security for ten years. When I die she will be left destitute. She will have to sell the house, pay off the debts and will have no income. I am not complaining, mind you. We got ourselves into this. We spent the money and accumulated the debt and we have only ourselves to blame. Yet I want to do my best to leave her in a position where, even if she has to sell the house, she will have an income to tide her over until she is sixty-five. It would be devastating for me not to be able to do that and this is why I am here. I warn you that the proposal I am about to make is dishonest. Technically I suppose, it is not fraudulent but it is quite clearly dishonest. But I am caught in a corner and would rather be dishonest than to leave my wife destitute.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Elliot paused to eat two more cookies and sip his tea. Then he continued. “I will not tell you how, because that would mean mentioning names, but I know you are investigating the tailpipe affair as everyone in the office calls it. Ridiculous self dramatization on the part of that poor man who calls himself our manager. In truth he does little managing. The sales staff sells the product, which is easy because it is a good product and in demand. The accountant counts the money and administrates the financial apparatus and the clerks keep this all recorded on the computers and in the filing cabinets. The manager runs a kind of Shakespearian fool sideshow rather than manages. Anyway, I know you are almost finished and have not come up with a name and will not, no doubt, for I don’t think anyone in the office did it. I propose to offer myself as a scapegoat, so to speak, ‘take the rap’ as the manager would put it in his American TV slang. I think if you implicate me on some flimsy evidence we concoct together he will become enraged and fire me. Then I can sue for wrongful dismissal. I have a son in law who is a lawyer. I have thirty years with the company. If I win it will mean a tidy sum and my wife will be looked after when I am gone. You will have conducted a successful investigation and the Boss will be very happy with you. What do you think?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have to ask some questions,” said Diedre. “I know you prefer not to tell me but I have to know what it is that you are dying from.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Cancer.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “Of the?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Bowel. Inoperable but chemo and radiation should keep me alive for two years or so according to the doctors.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you have copies of the Doctor’s reports?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A thick file full. At home.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I will have to see it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “OK.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I hate to ask but if I am to consider this I have to be sure of my ground.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m not insulted. I understand. When I get home I’ll copy the reports and send them over by courier.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Fine.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Elliot got to his feet. “You’ll consider it then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How long will it take?”<br /><br />&nbsp; “If you send me that file over tonight then I’ll phone you tomorrow evening after supper.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Diedre phoned the next night and told Elliot she would do it. He came over and they spent three hours working out a plan to implicate him. The ‘evidence’ was, as Elliot had said before, a flimsy concoction which would not stand up in court. Otherwise the company could claim the firing was for just cause. But they both felt it would be enough to convince the manager.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager was ecstatic when Diedre told him on Wednesday morning. “I knew my faith in you would prove right in the end, Diedre.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He called in Elliot and fired him on the spot. Unwisely, without consulting the company lawyer, he sent him a letter of termination that very afternoon. Elliot sued. His son in law took the case pro bono. After two years in the courts there was an out of court settlement. Curiously it had no effect upon the career of the manager at all. He continued to manage until they kicked him upstairs to a VP position when he was fifty. Diedre became the new manager. But all this happened some years later.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre went to visit Elliot in the hospital when he was dying. He was thin and weak but he had little pain. “Basically I am starving to death,” he said. “As if you wanted to know.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I do want to know,” said Diedre. “I am insatiably curious even about dying.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well there you go. You know now.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When she was leaving Eliot said, “I’ll be gone soon so we should say goodbye. Do you want to go to the funeral?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then I’ll tell Ellen and she will let you know.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Diedre went to the funeral with the manager who had on his best banker’s suit and his most lugubriously insincere mourning mask. After the church service they drove in the procession to the cemetery. It was a cold winter day. The wind whipping across the open fields around the graves cut like a knife. The minister sped through the graveyard service. The mourners were wrapped up like mummies. The flowers were put round the grave for the brief service by the undertaker’s assistants and then whisked away as soon as it was over, some already visibly frozen. Diedre and the manager stood at the very back and were the first to leave and return to the car. Diedre had left it running and once inside they took off their gloves, rubbed their hands together and opened their coats to let in the hot air blowing from the vents. When they were driving back to the office the manager said.<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It’s sad, isn’t it Diedre, when the pioneers begin to go. Makes you start thinking of the day when those who come after us will be standing around at our funerals. Time passes by and so on.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Deidre did not reply. This did not bother the manager for he assumed her silence was a result of deep pondering. He smiled and looked out the window at the passing fields, covered with drifted mounds of snow.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“One day, Diedre, it will be you and I, and young ones, yet to come, will stand beside our graves and think thoughts full of the mournful quality of passing time. Tempus fugit. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” The manager turned to look at Diedre who nodded politely to recognize the fact that he was speaking to her but kept her eyes on the road.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The manager turned away and looked back at the fields being replaced now by clusters of snow slavered fur trees. They reminded him of childhood Christmases and the upcoming office Christmas party. He remembered that Elliot had always been a bit of a wet blanket at the parties, sipping a weak drink, chatting with a few cronies in the corner. Since he was an older man he didn’t say anything to him but if he had been ten years younger he would have kicked his ass. Elliot wasn’t a team man. He didn’t let his hair down. But then again he was innocuous. Excepting that final incident he didn’t cause trouble and his sales figures were good right up to the end. He wasn’t a bad sort, really. One could almost feel a real sense of loss when a man like Elliot passed on. The manager’s eyes moistened and he wiped them quickly with the first knuckle of his right hand.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Then the manager remembered the payout and how the boss in the east had made him come out and get the cheque in person to rub it in. He remembered how the big boss’s secretary had booked him into a cheap hotel in the city’s industrial area and how he had been kept waiting in the outer office for a full hour. How was he to know that Elliot had a shark lawyer for a son in law? They made him deliver the cheque to the son in law in person, by God, and get a receipt. And then, after all that humiliation, the big boss buried everything and nothing more was said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Diedre told him she was going to the funeral he decided to come along. “Elliot and I had a disagreement, yes,” he told her, “but he was a member of the team for a long time. That demands a little respect.” Saying this made him feel magnanimous. He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Once again he looked over at Diedre who was giving all her attention to her driving, yet seemed abstracted, far away. Diedre was a hard one to read. She could be quite secretive, even cunning. He wondered why she would bother going to the funeral. What kind of relationship would a good looking young woman like her have with an old fossil like Elliot? He thought about that for a few minutes and came up with a blank. He sighed. Then he was suddenly jabbed in the ribs by the memory of his humiliation. Sitting in the outer office, the secretaries looking at him from the corner of their eyes. Vindictive little bitches as loyal to the loves and hates of their boss as if they were to their own.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Good ole Elliot, eh Diedre?” he said. “He was a vindictive bastard but you have to admit he knew when to sue and when to settle. A money grubber and a back stabber but in the end you have to be fair and give him that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-60979640264641757622012-05-29T18:24:00.002-07:002012-05-29T18:27:18.820-07:00The New Book<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The New Book<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Malcolm Fauder lived on the top floor of his apartment building six months a year and in the basement the other six, thus avoiding the sizzling heat under the roof in summer and the cold of the basement in the winter. He could manage this bi-yearly shift because the caretaker was an old friend from his school days and because the building had a high turnover rate. The studio apartments he lived in were identical throughout the building so his rent remained the same. His possessions, other than bookcases jammed with several thousand books, were few and required only one long day to be shifted from one place to another. After some difficult negotiations, some years before, the rental company had agreed that his original security deposit would stand despite his migrations. Malcolm managed, after a period of deep suspicion on the part of the office manager, to convince her that receiving and then returning two security deposits a year would only add to her workload without giving any benefit to the company whatsoever. He had often heard her complaining that she was overworked and figured this line of reasoning would win the day. It did.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; There was an unforeseen result of Malcolm’s discussions with the office manager. While speaking with her in the office one day, he noticed beside her desk a small pile of books lying on their side. He surreptitiously tilted his head and read the spines. They were all science fiction titles, and good ones too. No junk. When they had concluded their negotiations he asked her about the books and the manager talked at him for twenty minutes hardly taking a breath. She was obviously a science fiction addict and since he was too they soon became friends.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They took to having coffee together twice a week. &nbsp;Every Tuesday and Thursday at ten in the morning they exited the building, crossed the busy intersection just outside its doors and walked to a café down the street. They were a strange couple. Louise, the office manger, middle aged with a bouffant hairstyle, pancake makeup, long artificial fingernails painted red and a vigorous, aggressive personality which made her large body seem even larger than it actually was, tall, a little over six feet and Malcolm, small, thin and short, twenty four years of age, mild mannered, intellectual and sporting a shaved head winter and summer. Louise proceeded along the sidewalk with the august bearing of a Duchess about to inspect the kitchens. She took long strides and the short-legged Malcolm trotted along at her side much like one of those little dogs who accompany society matrons on their walks.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;After a number of these regular meetings they decided the time was not enough for the things they had to say. As well as bi-weekly coffee they began to have supper Friday nights at the Vietnamese restaurant next door. At the third of these suppers Malcolm asked Louise if it would be all right if he invited Stephen, the caretaker, the next week. Louise was reluctant. Although she didn’t say in so many words, Louise considered Stephen to be grumpy, uncooperative and uncouth. She and he got along reasonably well on matters of business but their relations were conducted across a minefield of topics to be avoided at all costs. However as Malcolm was insistent and as he obviously knew Stephen better than she did, after a brief resistance she gave in.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Louise was surprised when Stephen arrived for supper. Not only was he freshly showered and well dressed but he seemed to bring a new personality, one she had not seen before. She had not realized he was a deep reader. She had thought the face he presented to her, that of the gruff workman not about to be put upon by a bossy woman, was the only one, and was deeply surprised at his quick mind and sense of humour. Malcolm had thought that the mixture would work but when he saw that it actually did he was truly delighted. That his two dear friends could find enjoyment in one another’s company was almost too much to be expected. They had a rattling good time and ate together every Friday night thereafter. Sometimes they went back to Stephen’s for a cup of coffee.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Malcolm wrote fantasy books published by a large firm in London. The publisher’s representative tried to get Malcolm to move to that great city where, the representative claimed, he would be both intellectually and erotically stimulated. The representative, Vali P. Magnamity, originally from a small country in the Balkans where the women are small and dark skinned, had never recovered from his first sighting of English Valkyries, resplendent with peaches and cream complexion. If allowed, at least to fellow males like Malcolm, he would talk about them obsessively. Malcolm did not allow. Although mild mannered, deferential even, when important matters were at stake, in this case that he not be bored to death by a man who he had no choice but to do business with, he could be quite blunt.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Stop it Vali! Call one of those women who put their names up in phone booths!”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Vali took this very well. He was very light on his feet and did not take offence easily. After a few attempts to usher Malcolm to ‘hot night spots’ where there was ‘major action’, he eventually settled for inviting Malcolm to dinner at his home in a middle class suburb where, despite his craziness about well padded Valkyries, he had an Albanian wife and three children. The children, nine, ten and twelve, all girls, soon came to adore Malcolm who read them stories, took them to children’s plays, wrote plays which they performed in the living room, plays full of dragons, demons, monsters and troubled heroes, and watched sci-fi movies with them late week end nights on Vali’s big screen TV. Stella, Vali’s wife, loved anyone, male or female, who so delighted her children and took them off her hands for whole evenings and weekends at a time. As well Stella and Malcolm shared a similar sense of humour, imaginative and absurd, and thus enjoyed time spent in one another’s company. Of course when Malcolm was on the scene, Vali was at home, and not in bars pursuing ephemeral dreams of statuesque English beauty.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Malcolm thought notions of intellectual stimulation and cultural richness connected to the life of certain large cities to be largely illusory. He had among his acquaintance from his visits to London, a dozen or so refined cultural denizens. Well read, well schooled, possessed of an encyclopedic knowledge of classical music, literature, the historical flow of ideas, far beyond his own eccentric, episodic engagement with such areas of knowledge, when all this was stripped away what you got was an endless series of witticisms and a long trail of dinner parties. Malcolm, an occasional participant in London dinner parties himself, enjoyed them tremendously. They were like lowering oneself into a warm bath of bright, pleasurable titillation. But the gods of this milieu were gossip, irony and sharp comment whose aspirations never rose above bright repartee.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Once, Vali came to Malcolm’s city for a three-day visit. Vali was obviously appalled at the poverty of Malcolm’s lifestyle but much too polite to say so. The conversations Malcolm had with fellow tenants in the halls seemed completely incomprehensible to him. Vali saw the city as a vast dark dungeon, peopled by gnomes and troglodytes, desperate in their personalities, many close to insane. “A perfect home for a sci-fi writer dear Vali!” said Malcolm but Vali seemed to think that Malcolm would be consumed by such a malignant atmosphere, seemingly devoid of all the finer things in life. Since the visit went over a Tuesday and Malcolm’s coffee dates with Louise were sacrosanct, he took Vali along with him to the café. He tried to prepare Vali with a long talk on Louise’s children, ex husband, nieces, nephews, etc, which formed perhaps half of Louise’s conversation, but such knowledge is best infused incrementally. During the hour and a half talk Vali was totally at sea. Louise seemed to him like a beached Fellini character and the episode like a gruesome cut from a Hollywood film noir.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Every summer Malcolm rented a cabin on an isolated lake north of the city. Most summers Vali, Stella and the children came for a visit. Stella and the girls loved it there and moaned that they could only stay three weeks and not the whole summer. Vali seemed mildly depressed. He didn’t like to swim. He didn’t like to sail. He didn’t like to sing songs under the stars beside an open fire. He found all this ‘a little Mark Twainish’ which Malcolm found a stretch but at the same time understandable. Vali was urban to the core and he wilted away from the lights and noise of a big city. Being stranded in a provincial place, at a cabin by the lake, was, for him, like being a fish suddenly plucked from a flowing stream and cast gasping onto the shore.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Malcolm had a prejudice against those who wrote in the morning. It was his theory that morning writers were will driven and their work mediocre and formulaic. From his biographical reading he gathered information to support his case. If he discovered that a popular writer of romance mysteries wrote in the morning he was filled with delight. If he found that a best selling thriller writer who produced such quantities of text that one suspected him of being a corporation staffed with obedient ghost writers, wrote between five AM and noon, his joy knew no bounds. Kafka, he was sure, wrote in the afternoon, Tolkien late at night, Stevens on vacation evenings by the pool or in Pullmans with lights outside the windows passing by. Hemmingway, he was sure as well, wrote early mornings, with a hangover, after pushups, deep knee bends and a vigorous shower. Malcolm himself wrote in the mornings sometimes but not often. Usually it was afternoons and early evenings.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Occasionally a letter from one of his readers would ask. “Do you write in the morning?” He knew this because Louise, whom he had contracted to answer his mail, gave him a monthly file of representative letters. He instructed her to answer them thusly – “No, I do not. Morning writing is to be avoided at all cost. The morning mind is much too full of illusory clarity to produce good writing.” Louise had answered with these sentences so many times she could repeat them verbatim as she could many of the other stock answers with which he supplied her. When he first gave her his morning writing answer she said, “But you write in the morning, sometimes.” Malcolm replied, “They are not looking for ambiguities, Louise. They want absolutes, sureties, gilt edged investment certificates. They want, in fact, the clarity of the early morning mind. So we give it to them but at the same time lock them into a creative timeslot more likely to be fecund with confusion and mental interrelations. Trust me. Granted we are telling a white lie but in doing so we are doing them a big favour. &nbsp;When and if they find out it will be too late and, besides, they will forgive us for we do what we do from motives of benevolent paternalism, maternalism in your case.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Louise answered the letters on a separate laptop Malcolm provided. She did some at work when things were slow in the office but most she did in the evenings and on weekends. She took the laptop home with her. When she first took this over there were about three thousand letters a year. “If I answered all these,” Malcolm said. “I would have no time to write.” Louise provided him with a set of letters and answers for his files together with a file of representative letters. Sometimes he browsed the full file but for the most part he spent one morning a month reading the representative file. That was enough.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Louise first began the taking over the correspondence, they read and answered the letters together. Louise was a quick study and was not burdened with the modern obsession for ‘self expression’. She was quite happy to put on Malcolm’s persona as if it were her own and answer the letters. After six months of collaboration, Malcolm sometimes had difficulty making out whether an answering letter was written by himself or by Louise. When this happened he turned the whole thing over to her, monitoring the process by his reading of the representative file. Sometimes they received a letter of unusual complexity. These he answered himself, some of the writers eventually turning into regular correspondents. Malcolm gave them a separate post office box number and their letters moved outside the regular channels altogether. Malcolm hated E Mail and would have none of it. Other than for making appointments he seldom used even his telephone. “People should talk face to face,” he would say to Louise, “or, if not possible, they should take the time to write a letter. E Mail is by its very nature illiterate, barbaric, superficial and gossipy. Great for an insert but not to be confused with the august body of text.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; When he talked like this Louise smiled. Malcolm was a passionate man, full of judgments, dictats, and eccentric obsessions. This was what she liked about Malcolm. He was occasionally exasperating but never boring.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Louise had a wonderful memory. Something said on the fringe of her consciousness, listened to with perhaps ten percent of her attention, she could repeat verbatim three months latter. Many of Malcolm’s opinions she absorbed into her memory and reproduced in letters to readers. This delighted Malcolm. “Louise, you are more me than me!” he would say. <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;There was the problem of the signature. Malcolm didn’t want to sign three thousand letters a year. When he was out of the country or spending most of the summer at the lake, a bottleneck would occur. He would return to a day of writer’s cramp. As well the volume was increasing. Malcolm could see a day when the numbers would reach five or six thousand. Impossible. The answer was to produce a signature which Louise could easily sign herself. They worked up a few drafts and then finally settled on an M with a straight line followed by an F with a squiggle. It looked like the signature of a bank president or a CEO of a large company and had the advantage of being reproducible with little effort. Using the new signature Louise could sign a hundred letters in no time at all.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;After Louise had been signing the letters for a year or so, when they were drinking coffee in the café, she asked, “What about if someone wants to collect your letters one day? That’s what they do with writers, isn’t it?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sometimes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Wouldn’t me signing most of the letters with one signature and you signing your regulars with another be confusing?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I suppose it would. But somebody will figure it out if they really want to.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It’s a trick.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No Louise, it’s not a trick but a necessary extension of persona. No human being can write three thousand letters a year and still do his work. Essential self is not given out in writing letters to readers but rather a mask, a kind of constructed self. You and I have constructed this self together. Actually, when it comes right down to it this is the same with writing text, the creation of a series of shifting masks, behind them a primal force which gives them dynamic, compelling energy. The romantic tradition says that text is created in the service of the self expression of a unique individual. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Text comes from both the tradition and from a great clamoring of conflicting selves. In a sense it is communal activity, a cooperative effort. As for the letters, let those who are obsessed with literal notions of authorship figure it out. It will give them something to do.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then you wouldn’t mind if someone found out I answer the letters?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, not at all.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK, that’s all right with me then.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Malcolm’s publishers paid him very well for his books and he in turn paid Louise very well for answering the letters. Over time the numbers increased to the point where Louise found it difficult to continue her rental managing.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How many buildings do you manage?” Malcolm asked her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Five.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And you want to continue?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, but not so much. If I just answered letters who would I talk to all day? I could be holed up in an office on top of a tall building and not see anyone week in week out.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, what if you had only one building to manage, say this one?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That would be perfect.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK,” said Malcolm and he had a lawyer open negotiations with Louise’s company. Six months latter he bought the building. It was purchased in the name of a numbered company. The three directors of the company were Louise, Stephen and Malcolm. Malcolm paid for it in a complicated way suggested by his financial manager but in effect the set up meant they each owned a third. Louise and Stephen were astonished.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Stephen does research and bothers me from the realm of ideas. Louise too and she does the letters and you both run over text with me. So what’s the big deal? You are getting some of the proceeds of this process, that’s all.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They had the roof redone, this time with double the usual insulation. New windows, the best triple pane. Floors sanded. Kitchens and bathrooms re-floored. Exterior walls gutted, new plumbing, new electrical, foam insulation with double the normal R factor, new drywall. Halls re-tiled, walls patched and painted. Exterior oak doors stripped and re-stained. New Balconies with roll up bamboo screens. The rents were raised only to meet inflation. When Malcolm’s financial manager complained the building would not be making money, Malcolm said, “In fifteen years the company completely owns the building in effect paying back everything put into it with interest. By then, conservatively estimated, the building will be worth three million dollars. And you say we are not making money?” What the manager meant, of course, was that they were not making as much money as they could be making but Malcolm, Louise and Stephen were not interested in that. <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Malcolm moved into a renovated two-bedroom apartment on the top floor. He had a balcony overlooking the roofs of the smaller buildings forming a jumbled arrangement of shapes for a block until interrupted by the next street. Beyond this was a long, meandering line of trees along the bank of the river going off like a shining green snake into the body of the city to the west. Here, in the warm season, he had his morning coffee. He didn’t mind the stink of the city. He didn’t even mind its squat proletarian ugliness; in fact he liked it. The décor of the coffee shop below had not been changed for forty years. Every so often the owner closed for two days to repaint it. Other than that it remained the same, glorious in its stark functionality. The modern world of overly bright surfaces transformed regularly into the newest fashion of overly bright surfaces, depressed him. There was no continuity, no familiar wear and tear to it.<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Stephen, Louise and Malcolm were drinking coffee in the café. &nbsp;Spring and the strong sun were setting afire the front windows. Stephen and Malcolm had just returned from building a cabin on land Malcolm bought on an isolated lake north of the city. They had come early for coffee, just after the lunch crowd moved on. There was a table of stragglers in the corner but otherwise the place was empty.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Malcolm was restless. He had thoroughly enjoyed building the cabin but it meant two months away from his desk and he was eager to get back to work. The time in the country was of use to him, however. An interlocking series of ideas had presented themselves to him and he had spent hours in the evenings sorting them out and taking notes. &nbsp;He had not spoken of them to Stephen who spent his evenings reading Chinese poetry and designing a new circuit board from a pile of old computers he brought with him. When Stephen brought the tray of coffee mugs Malcolm asked the other two,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What about an agricultural society with information technology?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Machines?” asked Louise.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Some, but scaled down, simple, woven into a small scale agricultural context.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Somebody has to mine to get the metal for the machines,” said Stephen.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And some body has to build freighters to carry it.” &nbsp; “And harbors to dock them in.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Financial centers to supply and administrate the money.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, yes, but couldn’t these be also be scaled down, made sustainable, be woven into a society not driven by industrial giganticism?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Stephen took a sip of his coffee. “If you answer the question from a reading of history, no. Technology develops when craftsmen, thinkers, engineers, etcetera can be supported on surplus agricultural production. Technology is the result of the drive to control and exploit. Inevitably industrial agriculture reaches the point where less than three percent of the population can feed everyone, the place where we are at right now. Once you arrive there, why go back? What would be the trigger?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Louise stirred her coffee with a spoon she brought with her. She didn’t like the plastic stir sticks the café supplied. “Yes, Stephen, but what you are saying is a literal mechanistic view of the whole thing. If we put on the mechanistic blinders then no fundamental changes would ever occur. Things just continue along as they are, perhaps more and bigger but basically as they are. This, too, goes against a reading of history. What about the Romans for instance? “<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A failure of the state?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes but what is the state but an organized system of administrated technology. After all, the great majority of people couldn’t care less about the ideologies politicians make up. They go on the ride for the practical, material benefits the system provides them. Metal technology which makes their everyday lives easier. Storage of agricultural surplus eliminating famine, sewers, clean drinking water. The Romans had all that and yet walked away from it over a period of several centuries. The cities emptied out. Why?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Barbarians from the north?” asked Malcolm.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Maybe,” said Louise, “but Rome had for many centuries either rebuffed or absorbed barbarians from the north so why not continue to do so?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I think it was Christianity, Louise,” said Malcolm. “It pushed a view of the world as a fallen place, a view which found eager ears in the corrupt and degenerate Rome of late empire. And it offered to the barbarians in the north a vision of communal, natural living which fit into their tribal traditions.” &nbsp; “True,” said Stephen, “but the trigger we were looking for is not so much the new religion but the fact that the late empire was corrupt, degenerate and violent, a place where the old republican values were a joke. It was no longer a very nice place to live so people started looking for another.” &nbsp; Louise looked at Stephen with a mischievous glint in her eye.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You are not going to say that word, are you Louise?” he asked her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O yes I am Stephen. Spiritual.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Stephen put his fingers in his ears. “Awwwggghhh.” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Spiritual, Stephen. The people got tired of the old materialistic vision offered them by empire as riddled as it had become by violence and corruption. They wanted a new vision, one which had depth and would allow them to live in peace.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes,” said Stephen, sardonically, “and I noticed that they got it too.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But they did, young lad, at least in some measure. Modernity has a bias against what they call the dark ages but the truth is that, relatively speaking, people in Europe lived in peace. Wars were limited by the lack of political structure required to gather surplus. &nbsp;There was much more power and control at the local level and people lived in connection with nature which brought to their lives a depth which modern people are totally lacking. But I would say the trigger for that transformation was a spiritual one. The late empire gave them nothing but corruption,war and strife. Christianity gave them a vision of union both with their fellow human beings and with nature.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Perhaps that’s true, Louise,” said Malcolm, “but Christianity, in its present state, is incapable of offering people that.” &nbsp; “I totally agree!” said Louise. “Christianity presently is utterly bankrupt. That’s what you get for riding the wave of European imperial triumphalism. When it’s over you are over too.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, what could offer that today, then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“ Buddhism,” said Stephen. “There are twenty million Buddhists in America today, fifteen native born. It has a monastic tradition, an agrarian monastic tradition, and one which is developing a tradition of equality between men and women. From the point of view of idea structures Buddhist thought has more or less taken over much of psychological and psychiatric thinking.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why?” asked Malcolm.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“”Because of its depth,” said Louise. “Buddhist thought is profound and compelling. In a period of superficial, egocentric thinking serious people are attracted to the profundity. Plus, its social thinking, partly stolen from Confucius, posits a society based on harmony and mutual respect. Not that far away from Christian social thinking in, say, the year nine hundred.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “I know almost nothing about Buddhism,” said Malcolm.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Stephen does,” said Louise. “ I think he may be a secret Bodhisattva.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Which means?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I certainly am not a Bodhisattva, secret or otherwise. Louise is pulling your leg. But a rough colloquial translation would be ‘A wise one out among the people’.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;So Stephen gave Malcolm a list of books. After six months of reading and thinking, Malcolm started in on his new book.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Vali wanted to go south to Greece that summer instead of ‘roughing it’, as he called it at Malcolm’s cabin. ‘Roughing it’ was inaccurate for the cabin was very comfortable with compost toilets, a more than adequate solar electrical system, gas cooking. But, needless to say, for Vali was outnumbered four to one and those four relentless campaigners for a common goal, his only taste of Greece that year was travel brochures. <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Greece is overrated,” Stella claimed, “overpriced, crowded, jammed with phonies in period costume.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what about Culture, Stel? &nbsp;Are the girls going to become lumberjacks or travelers of the wintry wastes? I hardly think so.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What most modern people know about Greece and ancient cultures could fit into a thimble. Reading the introduction to a half dozen text books would suffice. And nobody talks about that kind of stuff anymore. Gossip, celebrities and fashion will suit you out for most dinner parties today better than a tour of tumbled down rocks with a tired old academic much more interested in the glories of the girl’s cleavages than the glories of ancient Greece. I can’t see what’s so interesting about all that anyway. Wars and then more wars and then a lot of weepy tragedies ending up with everybody dead.” &nbsp; <br /><br />&nbsp; “God, Stella.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Besides. I don’t know why you are suddenly so interested in Greek Culture. Other than a few sleazy restaurants with supper time strippers, I’ve not noticed much interest before.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The Aegean, Daddy, is a vast sewer seething with chemicals and excrement,” said Cornelia, his oldest, now nineteen. “If we go there we will no doubt come home with some dreadful disease and it will be all your fault.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sailing and swimming and finding coyote tracks,” said the second. “That’s what we do at Uncle Malcolm’s. Much more fun than sitting on a smelly tour bus full of creepy old ladies wearing pancake makeup.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I like the ponies at Uncle Malcolm’s and finding bird’s nests. And watching beavers build dams. Greece would be like when we went to Spain. Hot and full of dirty old men feeling Corny’s bum on the buses.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;After some weeks of this and the criticism of his position becoming more and more personal and acerbic, Vali gave in. The girls wanted six weeks but after some negotiation they settled on four. They were ecstatic. They thought the most they would get was three.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; When they arrived Malcolm picked them up at the airport in a rented van and they drove directly to the cabin, an hour’s drive. Everyone (including Vali who was good at pretending) was delighted with the new cabin – shining surfaces, newly laid flooring, balcony across the front overlooking the lake. They pulled up in the late morning. After the inspection and lunch the girls argued their way into a choice of bedrooms (there were five so they each had their own) and then went down to the lake to swim. Although Malcolm had lain in provisions, Vali and Stella insisted on driving to the nearest little town, twenty minutes away, and buying more. They took the van.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;As soon as the van left, Cornelia came up from the water. Malcolm was reading in the living room. She came in draped in a bathrobe, sat down and engaged him in conversation. This became a pattern in their stay. When Malcolm, a man of regular schedule, went for his morning walk, Cornelia went with him. When Malcolm, in the afternoon say, decided to go sailing and no one else wanted to go, then Cornelia suddenly decided to go too. Every evening she read a book Malcolm lent her from his library and these books provided the subjects for their conversations. Cornelia was intelligent and quick, quite the match for Malcolm’s own quickness of mind. At first he was a bit ambivalent about Cornelia’s approaches. After all she was no longer the young child he used to take to the London Zoo, but her thirst for his conversation was so genuine and his enjoyment of her company and wit (and beauty if the truth be told although Malcolm, something of a puritan, would not have admitted it) so intense, that he soon forgot his ambivalence and started looking forward to the time they spent together.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelia was wise beyond her years. She had already decided, some years ago in fact, but she sensed that Malcolm would be frightened off by a too direct approach. She was willing to bide her time. She made no sexual move towards him at all, not even a casual touching. If they were in the living room together she did not sit beside him on the coach but across from him on another chair. When she was alone in the cabin one afternoon, she searched his room and was greatly relieved to find a small pornography collection in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Some of the magazines were a bit kinky but she knew from going out with boys in England that the male imagination tended toward the kinky. More importantly the images were female. She was afraid that he might be gay.<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;On the day they were leaving Cornelia found Malcolm alone at the edge of the lake. She pulled out a card with some writing on it and handed it to him. When he started to read it she said,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Put it in your pocket.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He did so.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It’s my cell phone number.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Ah,” said Malcolm.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m in my room to study every weekday at nine. I don’t go to bed until one or so. That’s between 2AM and 6AM your time. Do you stay up late?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, but I get up early. Usually at five.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good then.” &nbsp;Then she turned on her heel and walked back to the cabin.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Vali and Stella watched this from an upstairs window.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What do you think she’s up to?” Vali asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Him, I’m afraid.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You are kidding.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No I’m not.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, I suppose old Malcolm can handle himself.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“ I wonder. It seems to me that Malcolm is a Peter Pan. If that little minx decides she wants him then I don’t give him much of a chance.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Will you say something to her?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You’ve got to be kidding. If I said something she would only do it all the more.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Cornelia arrived back in England she refused to spend the remains of the holiday, August that is, with her mother in Scotland as she usually did. Stella shrugged her shoulders and went off with the other two girls. But Malcolm didn’t phone. Cornelia was not too disturbed. She correctly figured that first Malcolm would dismiss the idea of phoning her completely but still he would not throw away the card. Later, on occasion, he would take it out and look at it but then put it away again. Then one night he would both stiffen his resolve and give in to temptation and phone. When he did she could tell it was him from the call display.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Hello, Malcolm.” &nbsp;They spoke for several hours. After that he phoned twice a week. He complained to her that her father’s firm refused his latest book. But he was continuing work on it anyway, while starting another more along the lines of his previous books. Cornelia commiserated. They talked about the technology in his Buddhist book, as he called it. Cornelia, in the fall, would be receiving a degree in the history of technology. She had started out in English Lit but was dissatisfied with the way it was taught so switched over. “I don’t think anyone at the University actually reads original text,” she complained. “They read criticism and criticism of criticism and theory and criticisms of theory but they find text much too vulgar for their tastes. Things actually happen in text for example. Very deplorable that, things happening, events occurring. So concrete and vulgar, don’t you know.” This made Malcolm laugh. “Well, that’s why I’m a writer and not an academic.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When she picked up her degree in September he remembered the date and, although it wasn’t one of his usual nights, he phoned. After the formalities of congratulation the conversation became awkward and ground to a halt. Cornelia waited for a time, allowing the silence to grow and then she said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did you find them, Malcolm?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you still have them?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, I do.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Where?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“In the bedroom.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I suppose I should get on a plane then.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.” &nbsp;Two days later Cornelia boarded a plane at Heathrow. Malcolm picked her up at the airport. At Cornelia’s insistence they drove directly to his apartment and went to bed. There they stayed, with brief excursions for food and showers for almost a week. Then Malcolm went back to work and Cornelia wondered about the town, exploring. She bought a bus pass. Every day she took a new bus and rode it until it came back to her original point of departure. Sometimes she got off and explored a spot on one of the rivers (the city had three) or went into a restaurant and had coffee. She downloaded a map and used it to explore the downtown on foot. She visited the art galleries. She had lunch at sidewalk cafes.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When she arrived back at Malcolm’s he would be preparing supper. If the weather was good they ate on the balcony. One night Louise came for supper. Another Stephen came. After three weeks of this Cornelia announced.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I can do supper every second night.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Fine,” Malcolm replied.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I copied some of my mother’s recipes before I left.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good. Have you spoken to her?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And how is she taking all this?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She expected it all along she says. But I believe she thinks it rather naughty.” &nbsp; “And your dad?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Livid.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Really?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. But I expected that. Daddy is a terrible chauvinist. He thinks his daughters should do exactly as he says.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what exactly does he say?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Marry a stockbroker. Become a London matron, a giver of dinner parties, that sort of thing.” &nbsp; “No hanging out with writers in far away provincial cities?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Certainly not. Especially one who is a friend of the family and thus committing incest by bedding one of the daughters.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So Vali thinks of me as a pervert?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes but I wouldn’t worry. He’s perverted himself with his strip clubs and the magazines full of big breasted babes he keeps in the basement where he thinks them safe from prying eyes. He’ll come around after he blows off his self-righteous father steam. After all, Malcolm, you are his best selling author, his claim to glory and fame at the firm.” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Fortunately there was no outstanding business between Malcolm and the firm for several months and they could avoid speaking to one another without difficulty. But that time soon ended. Translation rights for one of his early books into Spanish had to be dealt with and one morning when Malcolm picked up the phone Vali was on the other end.<br /><br />&nbsp; “It’s me Malcolm, the injured father.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Hello Vali.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I hope it’s not a regular MO of yours to befriend lonely businessmen so you can gain the opportunity of molesting their daughters.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m afraid, Vali, that it is equally the case that your daughter is molesting me.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s what her mother says but mothers often have a cynical view of their daughter’s motives. But what are your long term intentions, Malcolm?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Entirely honourable, Vali. More than honourable.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Marriage, then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“If it’s up to me but there is another involved who may be in it just for the short term thrills.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t think so. Stella says Corny is the very serious type in such matters. Dalliance is not her style.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I would think so too, Vali, but I haven’t asked yet.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Better do so soon, young lad, or her mother will be forming a league of outraged British mothers who will demand the navy shell your coastal cities.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, Dad.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O goodness, don’t call me that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sorry, Vali.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Quite all right, old boy. Age has its ruins and ravages and one must learn to live with them. But Vali will do just fine.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;In September Cornelia entered one of the local universities, post grad. “I’ll have a reading year first. I want to do a thesis on the relationship between mainstream literature and sci-fi. I have some ideas and one of the profs likes them.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Tricky stuff, Corn.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“If it isn’t tricky then it would be boring. The prof seems broad minded enough and likes sci-fi. He reads you. I didn’t tell him, of course, that I know you and that we do sexual things to one another in the evenings.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; Christmas, that year, Malcolm and Cornelia spent at home. Vali, Stella, et al stayed in England. “Things must be regularized,” said Stella to Vali in a keeping up the standards tone he had not heard before. Vali, wisely, said nothing. “And,” Stella added, “tarting around in the colonies is not exactly regular.” They told friends and family that Cornelia was touring North America with unnamed companions of her high school days. Everyone pretended to believe this for form’s sake but they all knew it to be untrue. The eavesdropping younger sisters told anyone who would listen the salacious details. They themselves saw Cornelia as a daring adventuress capturing the heart (and body) of a famous foreign writer. They combined a sense of Victorian melodrama with the modern taste for pornographic detail, a potent cocktail. Their parents were old fashioned prudes whose own sexual glories were so far in the past as to be irretrievable even in the small portion necessary for nostalgic empathy. Their long dead libidos had been replaced with stock options and foreign currency accounts.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;One evening in December, Cornelia, after removing her parka, scarf and enormous snow boots and placing her briefcase on the kitchen table, said to Malcolm who was frying something fishy in the wok at the stove, “So do we make peace with the old country, Malcolm, or what?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Make peace Corn. Always the best policy.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Marriage, Corn. Become proper, respectable social units. Then the stories of incest will gradually die out, hopefully before our children become teenagers on the sniff for sins and scandals.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “JP or Church?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Up to you.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“JP.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“OK.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;In May a JP did the service in the local community hall. One wall was lined with tables laden with goodies catered by the neighborhood Anglican Ladies Group. Vali, who paid for the reception had vigorously lobbied for something more upscale but was successfully resisted by Malcolm and Cornelia who wore aggressively ordinary clothes and ate their reception dinner at plywood tables from paper plates. The two younger sisters were chatting up two of Stephen’s nephews, who, to begin with, resisted because they had been told by friends that all British girls were frigid and confined their sexual activity to the two or three times necessary to conceive children. Eventually the girl’s liveliness and beauty won out over this ignorant stereotyping and they sat at a table together and flirted outrageously.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Later in the evening, seated at a table in the back of the large room, Vali asked, “Have you finished that strange book you were working on, Malcolm?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You mean the Buddhist book.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Perhaps you might send it to us again. Certain of the brass have been rethinking its rejection and asking about it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cornelia, who was seated nearby and listening, said, “Too late, Daddy. The local University Press is publishing it in the fall.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Vali raised both eyebrows. “What kind of sales will you get out of that, Malcolm?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t really care, Vali. If it sells a few thousand, that’s OK with me.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And one of the larger publishers might decide to pick it up somewhere down the line.” Cornelia said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Vali looked at her with some surprise.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did you place it Corny?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, Daddy, I did.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He looked across the table at Malcolm but he was looking at his new wife with a glazed, amused affection. So Vali returned his eyes to Cornelia who was watching him with cautious attention. He smiled a sudden, genuine full out smile and said, “Well then, we should have a talk about that before we leave, Corny.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sure,” she said, “but you should know he decides. Sometimes I talk for him because he’s busy and doesn’t have time. But it’s his work and he’s the one who decides.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Then Stella, who was seated beside Vali but not listening to the conversation, engaged as she was in watching the table occupied by her younger daughters and Stephen’s nephews, said, &nbsp;“My God, look at them! They are all but climbing over those young men, the shameless hussies!”<br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-32327484039266903942012-05-29T18:22:00.000-07:002012-05-29T18:22:24.786-07:00Gindle<br /><br />Gindle<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Gindle thought the sweep of the lawn down to the sea very impressive but the house itself tattered and in need of much repair. So was the middle aged man who picked her up at the airport, a tall, bony man, who she at first thought to be Mr. Calico, but when she addressed him as such he laughed heartily and said no, no, he was only the chauffer and the man of all trades about the house. Mr. Calico was known to be an eccentric and a recluse and the outlandish costume of the chauffer seemed to fit the bill. His pants were a Napoleonic blue, his cap so grimy it was impossible to tell what color it was or if it was cotton or wool and his woolen coat, smeared with what seemed to be a mixture of grease and ashes, was held together with a slight gap between the edges by three pieces of baling wire looped through the buttonholes.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When they drove through the trees and up to the house, he said, “Well, here it is miss, the auld wreck, as you can see.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;It was an ‘auld wreck’ but a glorious one. Built of sawn granite, with stone lintels, cornice gargoyles, massive mullioned windows, it thrust up into the twilight, huge and menacing. The central section, before which they had come to a halt, was a hundred feet across, and out from it, on either side were three story wings, extending another seventy-five or eighty feet. The paint on the windows was peeling; some of the gutters had come loose and were dangling uselessly. The roof of the long wooden verandah leading up to the front door was holed here and there and the railing rotted and sagging. The top story windows in the wing to the left were boarded up with plywood, black with age. The front steps leaned to the right and forward, so that climbing them had to it a nautical feel. When they reached the top, Samuel grasped her by the elbow and led her in a circuitous route around the worst of the deck rot. The boards were covered with a black slime and in several spots there were gaping holes.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; The house had been constructed fifty years before, long after the advent of modernity had thrust such buildings back into the mists of history. Gindle marveled at the wealth necessary to build such a structure in an age in which it was an act of nostalgia requiring an enormous layout for special orders, the importing of stoneworkers and specialty carpenters. Perhaps the expense had crippled the Calico fortune and thus led to its present state of disrepair. One day, after she had settled in, she would ask Samuel. This was the only name the chauffer had given her, claiming himself to be an informal man and ‘not like the boss (Mr. Calico she presumed) who was a ‘keener’ on formalities.’ Samuel claimed no one had called the boss by his Christian name for more than thirty years. <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You mean he has no intimates?” Gindle asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O he has intimates, Miss, but not the kind who call him by his Christian name, if you know what I mean.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Gindle did not know what he meant but thought it better, at this stage in their acquaintance, to let this remark pass by without comment. Samuel let them in the front door, working the lock on the big oak door with an oversized key. She followed him up the main stairs, which began just past the entrance vestibule, to the secfond floor where he opened a door already ajar with his shoulder and deposited her two bags inside the door. “Got to be off, Miss,” he said and was gone.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The room was huge, thirty feet square, the floor covered with Turkish carpets, (mismatched and faded) and cast now, by the increasingly darkening twilight and the closed drapes across the windows, into a middling gloom. She crossed the floor and attempted to open the drapes, unsuccessfully.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They are sewn together at the top so it is useless for you to try and yank them open,”<br />said a thin voice from one of the darkened corners. So thin and weak was the voice that Grindle was surprised rather than frightened. She looked in its direction and saw a short, fat woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. As if in answer to an unvoiced question this figure continued, “I’m Cicily, the maid, in case you are wondering. I cleaned this room yesterday but I don’t know if it did much good. The carpets are old and musty and should be sent out for cleaning but the boss won’t have anything to do with that. Well, at least I cleaned all the surfaces of the furniture and put clean linen on the bed. Better than nothing I suppose.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Very much better,” said Grindle, “and I thank you. But the effort might have been wasted I’m afraid. The kitchen is in the basement, Samuel tells me, and I would much prefer a room off of the kitchen even if it is a lot smaller.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“There is one but, as you say, it is a lot smaller. Maybe a quarter of the size of this and it has only one window and that small. Of course, since these drapes don’t open and the boss refuses to allow anyone to open them, any window open to the light and air would be an improvement. If you want I could help you down with your bags and we could clean it together and find linen for the bed. I cleaned it three weeks ago and it has been closed against the dust so it shouldn’t be too bad.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That would be wonderful,” said Gindle. Cicily took hold of one bag, Gindle the other, and, Cicily leading the way, they walked down the stairs to the first floor, along a corridor for some way and down another flight of stairs into the basement. <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This room, much smaller, perhaps fifteen by fifteen, suited Grindle to a T. Not only was it right off the kitchen but it had a window looking out into the garden and it was sufficiently large without having the feeling of a warehouse to it, like the room upstairs. It contained a writing desk, a cupboard, a bed, two bureaus and a bookcase. On the wall above the bed was a painting of a young woman, seated in a wicker chair in a garden, perhaps the one outside the window. She seemed the picture of a dreamy woman of leisure and Gindle wondered what her painting was doing in a bedroom to be occupied by a cook or a maid. “Who is she?” she asked Cicily.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Was. She was the last cook but two. She’s dead now.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dead? The last cook but two? How old is the painting?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cicily puckered up her face in concentration, and, after what seemed a great effort, came up with, “three years I believe. Yes, three years this coming July.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then she would have died very young. What did she die of?” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She fell from the roof of the main building onto the stones of the driveway.” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What was she be doing on the roof?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Some say she was flighty and romantic. Maybe she was looking at the stars.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Perhaps I’ll take the painting down and put it into storage.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O I wouldn’t do that, Miss. No, no, that wouldn’t be the proper thing to do at all. The boss would be very disturbed if he heard of such a thing. They say he had an affection for the young woman, that is in a fatherly sort of way. So kindly did he feel toward her that he had a painter come in and do her portrait, a very expensive enterprise, very expensive.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The two women busied themselves and soon the bed was made with fresh linen, the surfaces wiped with a damp cloth and the tile floor mopped from a bucket of hot, sudsy water. Gindle opened the window to let in some air. She thanked Cicily and the maid, after a strange salute with her left had which could have been either a salute or a spasm of some kind, quickly slipped out the door. After making herself a sandwich in the kitchen. Gindle went to bed early for she had been traveling all day and was exhausted.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When Gindle got up in the morning and went into the kitchen she was surprised that it was so well equipped. Considering the run down look of the house from the outside she had expected to find things old and behind the times. Instead there was a huge modern gas range with eight burners and two ovens, food processor, bread dough machine, etc. After taking breakfast upstairs to the boss, Cicily came in and had coffee at the long wooden table. “Doesn’t Samuel eat in the kitchen?” Gindle asked her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. He has a separate little house to himself at the back and does for himself. He comes in now and again for coffee, perhaps two or three times a week. ”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Any others?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“There is a young boy who comes in the evening and on weekends this time of the year. He works the garden and the grounds although not so vigorously that it interferes with his daydreaming. He’s always looking for something to eat and if you let him he will talk your ear off. Then there are two old maid sisters who come in five days a week to do a general cleaning. &nbsp;They will ask for all kinds of special food from you, claiming their delicate digestive systems can deal with nothing else. In truth they have the digestive systems of horses and are only trying to lever a little more payment from the boss in the form of expensive meals. I tell you so you will know. To be forewarned is to be forearmed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why, thank you Cicily. I appreciate it.” Actually Gindle did appreciate this warning but not in the way Cicily no doubt intended it. She determined that she would keep on hand a ready supply of pies, date squares, freshly made bread for the boy and once she discovered what delicacies the old ladies liked, she would find some way of hiding their purchase in the kitchen accounts, for to Gindle, to deny people wholesome, well cooked food was a terrible sin. It was her opinion that much of the wickedness and suffering in the world rose directly from people eating tasteless and unhealthy meals.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The boy arrived the next afternoon. He was a thin, sorrowful lad with a great mop of uncut hair sticking out in all directions. He came into the kitchen as if he were expecting to be beaten, one eye on Gindle and one eye on the door through which he had come, ready, if necessary, to beat a hasty retreat.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No need to slouch about like a frightened dog, my boy. I won’t hurt you and the food you will get in my kitchen will be better than you’ll get in most and lots of it. So stand up straight first and then come over here to the table and I will give you something good to eat.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The boy did as he was asked. When he was seated, Gindle asked him,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did you have supper yet?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, mam.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Fine then. When you have worked for two hours it should be ready and then you can come in and have some. For now, here is a slice of apple pie and a piece of cheese to keep you going.” Gindle put a plate of pie and cheese before him on the table and laid a fork alongside it. The boy looked at the plate of food in amazement for some seconds and then set to demolishing its contents, a feat he accomplished in record time. Gindle gave him a second, smaller piece of pie and he ate that too.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When he was finished she gave him a cup of tea, set another on the other side of the table and sat down. “Do you like veal cutlets?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, mam. Or at least I think I do. What are they?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Veal is young lamb. Cutlets are like chops and veal cutlets are breaded. I make a mushroom sauce that you pour over the top and they are served with roast potatoes and brocolli.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It sounds wonderful, mam, and I’m sure I will like it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Didn’t the cooks before me give you meals?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Sort of. Bread and cheese. Old bread and dried up cheese.”<br /><br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When he was finished his tea the boy went off to work. He didn’t come in for supper until it was dark. When he was seated and eating, Gindle asked, “Does your mother cook?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“My mother is dead.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Father?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dad eats at the pub so I do for myself.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Do you remember the young cook from three years ago?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Indeed I do, mam. I was only ten then but my Dad did this job before me and sometimes I came to help.” &nbsp; “You probably remember her because she was beautiful.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The boy blushed a deep red and Gindle regretted what she had said. But the boy quickly shrugged off his embarrassment and said, “she was beautiful but also a good cook. She used to feed Dad and I real meals but out in the garden so they wouldn’t know.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Who wouldn’t know?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Cicily and the boss.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They objected to her serving you meals?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“So I gather.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the boy was gone Cicily came into the kitchen and sat down at the table to drink a cup of coffee.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Mr. Calico would not approve of the boy being fed the same meal served at the main table,” she said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then he should come and tell me so.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Mr. Calico never comes down into the kitchen. If he has instructions for the cook then he relays them through me.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Then I will relay a reply through you, Cicily. I will be feeding the boy supper and since it is most efficient, and even economical to feed him the same meal as I send to the main table, then I will do so. If Mr. Calico wishes to discuss this with me then he can come down here or summon me upstairs, whichever he prefers.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Cicily seemed quite astonished at this reply but she didn’t say anything. She finished her coffee in silence and went up to her bedroom on the second floor.<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That night, when Gindle was in bed and falling asleep, there was a scratching at window. She assumed it was a cat but when she got out of bed and went to the window and opened it there was nothing there. At least there was nothing on the windowsill but in the distance at the gate leading through the stone wall out of the garden, her eye caught a movement. It was very dark, just the barest light coming from her own tiny window and a window in the upper floors of the house but it seemed as if a woman wearing a dress and a shawl for the night chill was walking along the wall. But as soon as this impression registered the figure disappeared. Gindle decided it was just a shadow, perhaps created by someone moving across a lighted window upstairs. She closed the window, turned off the light and went back to bed.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the boy, Ralph by name, as Gindle discovered on their second meeting, finished his supper the next evening, Gindle asked him, “Do you think the young cook jumped from the roof?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Ralph did not seemed upset by this question at all. Gindle had expected him to be a little shocked.<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No,” he said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then what?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Pushed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why do you say that?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Because she wasn’t the kind to kill herself. She was happy and energetic. Why would she kill herself?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Some times people can disguise the symptoms of depression.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “No. If you are in the presence of a person for some hours then you know. She was not depressed and did not kill herself. She was pushed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How can you be so sure? What about slipping? Maybe she went to the edge of the roof &nbsp;to look over and lost her footing.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“If you saw her cross the kitchen just once you would know that didn’t happen. She was as sure footed as a goat.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Was there an inquiry?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what did it say? &nbsp; “Accident.” &nbsp; “Well?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Ralph laughed. “Inquiries around here find answers satisfying to the living. They are not really about what happened to the dead. The judge didn’t know the cook but he did know Mr. Calico.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Are you saying they covered things up?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. I am saying they had no information so they came up with accidental death. That’s not true but what else could they have done?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did Mr. Calico appear at the Inquiry?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No. He was ill and his doctor wouldn’t let him leave his bed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Was he ill?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“In a way but not in the way the doctor claimed. He was devastated by the cook’s death. I think Mr. Calico was in love with her. He’s an old man but my Dad tells me sometimes old men fall in love and its worst for them than it is for the young men.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You make it sound as if it were a disease.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dad says, in a way, it is.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And do you have an opinion of your own?” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have no experience and so no opinion. Yet I suppose it could be both, a disease and a happiness, I mean.”<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That night there was another scratching at the window. At first Gindle turned over and tried to ignore it but the scratching continued and she rose and went to the window. When she opened it a cool breeze came in, blowing the stray hair back from her face. There was a woman standing ten feet beyond the window, looking at her. There was enough light for Gindle to identify her as the woman in the painting. She was looking at Gindle with a kindly curiosity. She wasn’t substantial. Gindle could see through her to the garden and the wall beyond. She was wearing a dress and over her shoulders was draped a knitted shawl. “I am not looking for revenge,” she said in a sweet clear voice, the melodious, bird like voice of a happy young woman. Then she disappeared. One millisecond she was there, the next gone. Gindle was not the least bit frightened. She was even sad that the figure disappeared and did not give her an opportunity to speak. She went back to bed and fell asleep almost right away.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The next morning Samuel came into the kitchen for coffee. After some desultory talk of the weather and the Spring Festival which was to be put on the next weekend in the little town nearby, Gindle asked him, “Did you know the cook who fell from the roof?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, of course. I’ve been here for a dog’s age.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And what did you think of her.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A very nice young woman.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s it? <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“What else would there be? I hardly knew her. She was only here for a year before she died and in those days I seldom came into the kitchen.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But she was such a good cook they say.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Apparently, but I was warned away from that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Warned away?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Told to keep my distance.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“By whom?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“His nibs. The boss.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Mr. Calico?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“There is only one.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Why?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well now, that’s quite a question. My answers would be speculative for I don’t really know why.” &nbsp; “Then what are your speculations?” <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The old man had the hots for her. For another man to be near her made him jealous. Which is ridiculous for I was old enough to be her father and have no inclinations towards lurking about robbing cradles. &nbsp;But then the boss was old enough to be her grandfather, so there you go.” &nbsp; “Do you think she jumped from the roof?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That she fell, then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She was pushed?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Probably.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;By who?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The auld witch.” &nbsp;“One of the cleaning sisters?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, no. Auld hide in the corner.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Cicily?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Who else?”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The cleaning sisters, Gindle found, would have been incapable of pushing anyone off the roof, even six years before, for they were quite crippled with arthritis. When they first came into the kitchen two days after she arrived, it took them five minutes to make it across the floor and seat themselves at the table. This they accomplished by holding onto one another, each serving the other as a living walker. How they managed to do their cleaning was a wonder to Gindle. She supposed they didn’t manage to do much even in five days of work. Perhaps they were kept on because of Mr. Calico’s dislike of having strangers in the house. When they were finally seated in their chairs, on cushions supplied by one from a gigantic cloth bag she carried over her shoulder, they both gave out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Gindle wondered if they did their cleaning in the same way they crossed the floor – clutching onto one another for dear life. When they were settled they both looked at her and smiled.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You can’t possibly know, my dear, how debilitating age and arthritis can be,” said one.<br /><br />&nbsp; “Or how trying to the spirit,” said the other.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Even a saint would question the Lord if arthritis was visited upon them,” said one.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And the Lord would forgive them their weakness for the rain falls equally upon both the good and the wicked,” said the other.<br /><br />&nbsp; Then, as if this introductory set of remarks had cleared the air of all necessity for further metaphysical speculation, the first, (Gindle never did find out which was the youngest, which the oldest, not that it mattered for they were born a little less than a year apart) whose name was Dorothy, said,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“We are especially inclined toward shrimp, dear.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This was immediately followed by Gillian, the other, saying, “Breaded lightly and fried quickly in the wok, dear. Olive oil, double virgin, is the best.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Dorothy burst into a series of giggles at this last remark which disgusted her sister. “Stop it,” she said. “You’ll fry, yourself, in the deepest regions of hell if you don’t discipline your mind away from gross bodily things like virginity.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well,” said Dorothy. “You have to admit that the connection between double virgin olive oil and our own double virginity is rather obvious and only a prude would pretend that it doesn’t pop up like a jack in the box.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I admit no such thing,” said Gillian. “Those with disciplined minds do not make such connections despite what that disgusting Doctor Freud had to say. To those with dirty minds all things are dirty.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “O dear,” said Dorothy. “Not only do we have to clean Mr. Calico’s house but we also have to clean our minds.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You can do one while doing the other,” said Gillian.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Dorothy smiled at Gindle. “Don’t pay too much attention to her, dear. She’s always testy like this on the first day. By the second or third day her joints loosen up a bit and she becomes far less evangelical and more companionable. The interval, however, can be quite a trial.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The ladies grew quiet when Gindle brought the teapot and cups to the table. Gillian, after a moment of what seemed to Gindle, to be silent prayer, reached out to grasp the pot and pour tea.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;After sipping from her cup, Dorothy said. “And plum sauce to dip them in dear, the expensive kind, I forget the name….”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“’Moon On the River’,” said Gillian.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes. ‘Moon On the River’. Not that cheap stuff which tastes like boiled dishwater.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Ugh,” said Gillian.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Do you bake bread my dear?” asked Dorothy.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Wonderful! Then perhaps some freshly baked brown bread to go along with the shrimp.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“As a kind of absorbent to aid the digestive processes,” said Gillian.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Each piece spread with a light skim of real butter,” said Dorothy.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“None of that margerine. You would have thought the end of the war would also have been the end of that; but no, sadly and unfortunately, not,” said Gillian.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then, afterwards,” said Dorothy, “perhaps a tasty chocolate pudding. Not too bitter and certainly not that store bought stuff which tastes like congealed motor oil.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That evening, after sending Ralph into town on his bicycle to get shrimp, Gindle made the ladies exactly what they had ordered and they could not praise her highly enough. During after dinner conversation they ‘put in their order’ for the next day – pork chops braised in a sweet and sour wine sauce, whipped potatoes, Harvard beets, with stewed prunes, covered with two tablespoons of whipped cream for dessert. When Gindle told them that would be fine, Gillian said, “Why, it’s like going back into time, isn’t it, Dorothy? To when Ruthie was here.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Now there,” said Dorothy, “was a young woman with a golden touch.” She looked briefly at Gindle. “Not quite as good as yours, my dear, but almost.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;After Gindle had asked her usual questions Gillian said.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Ruthie loved cooking far too much to kill herself. And as for falling, give me a break. After all, what was she doing up on the roof in the first place? Cooks usually stay in the basement.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It was the old man if you ask me,” said Dorothy. “He was a randy ram when he was young and age doesn’t change men like that. Always looking for something to stick it into, the younger the better. The way I see it he brought her up there on some pretext like examining the beauty of the night sky, a favorite modus operandi for seducers, I am told. When she reacted in horror to his aggressions he became enraged and tipped her off the roof. Granted he is old and weak but even an old and weak seducer, in a passion at being rejected, can accomplish surprising feats.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Gillian concurred with this opinion, although she thought ‘Miss Spiderweb’ (Cicily) had a hand in it. “For tipping people off roofs,” she said, “it helps to have a partner. They say, as well, that at various times in the old man’s career, Miss Spiderweb was little more than a procurer. Some even say, when she was younger, she was not opposed to servicing the old vulture herself. And then, of course, she would have been jealous. The old man was infatuated with Ruthie. He brought in that painter to do her portrait. He had her, twice a week, dine at the main table. With Miss Spiderweb serving, no less. You can imagine the poison curdled in her stomach while she was serving the soup to poor Ruthie.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That night the old ladies left later than usual. Samuel drove them home after half carrying them across the gravel to the waiting car.<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Actually,” said the apparition when she was seated in Gindle’s reading chair, later that night, “it was the ladies who had it right. I was told by Cicily to report to Mr. Calico’s study on the fourth floor that night. When I arrived he led us up the wrought iron stair leading onto the roof. There is a small deck there close to the front of the house and we sat there in the wicker chairs they put up there in the summer. The old man declared his love for me. He wanted to marry me and proposed, that very night, that we act as if this had already been accomplished. I was horrified. I was a young woman of romantic temperament and the idea of marrying such an old man and abandoning my dream of love with a man my own age, was repulsive to me. I tried to be kind but firm. I wanted no misunderstandings. But, when he realized that I was not to be convinced, he grew enraged. He turned red in the face and said terrible and bitter things about how ungrateful I was and then about what a slut I was, hankering after lustful nights with young studs. I didn’t know what to say so I rose from my chair and started toward the stair. Surprising fast for such an old man he was upon me. We struggled and ended up against the front railing at the edge of the roof. &nbsp;I was young and strong and, despite his rage, I succeeded in breaking free. I was just about to run to the head of the stair and down when Cicily came out of the shadows and pushed me over the railing. I was so surprised I didn’t even scream. Bump, she hit me with her shoulder like hockey players do and I was over. Fortunately I hit my head on the flags when I landed and was killed instantly.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“When you first appeared to me some nights ago you said that you were not looking for revenge.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s true.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “What are you looking for, then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “A good cook. After me they hired terrible people who were under the thumb of Cicily. They fed Ralph food not fit for dogs and often wouldn’t even let him into the kitchen. Upon Cicily’s instructions they fed Gillian and Dorothy burnt eggs and stale bread. They forbade Samuel the kitchen altogether. It took me a while but I finally managed to get my old friends a good cook and a kind woman. As soon as you came they were conspiring to get rid of you, both of them. I put a stop to that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You wouldn’t want to know. I may seem to you kind and meek but I have a dark side. I rattled their cages you might say. I put the fear into them. They will not be bothering you. I’ll be going off but I will also be keeping an eye open. I doubt they will try anything but if they do they will regret it. When the old man dies Samuel will inherit. Those two are in limbo so to speak. They live only in the memories of their old crimes and old vices which myself and old age no longer allow them to indulge. As they are no longer capable of injuring others, as they did me, they are merely pitiable half creatures chewing the bones of their extinguished desires. Hungry Ghosts I believe the Buddhists call them.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Gindle put on her coat and accompanied Ruthie through the garden to the gate in the stone wall. There, if you can call a clutching of the substantial and the insubstantial an embrace, they embraced. Then Ruthie walked through the open gate and disappeared into the shadows. When she was almost gone Gindle called out. “And the painting?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Burn it, please,” was the answer.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The next morning, first thing, before anyone else in the house was up, Gindle carried the painting into a corner of the garden and lit it on fire. When it was fully consumed she shoveled the ashes into a small pail and sprinkled them on the garden.<br />&nbsp; <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That evening Gindle sent Ralph round to bring Samuel for supper. The ladies and Ralph sat on one side of the table, Gindle and Samuel on the other. Between them were pottery bowls containing the chops, whipped potatoes and Harvard beets. After a brief grace, offered by Gillian and assented to with an amen by the others, they set to. Everyone, including the ladies, whose digestive processes, revived by Gindle’s cooking, were now in fine fettle, ate heartily. Afterwards, following a pause filled with gossip, laughter and story telling, they ate stewed prunes with whipped cream, washed down with several cups of hot tea.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When the dishes were removed from the table, Samuel set a fire in the fireplace standing in the kitchen’s far corner. Here, the assembly sat in a semi circle, final cups of tea on their knees, holding a friendly argument about what would be on the menu for the following day. They settled on leg of lamb with roasted potatoes and curried rice. In honor of his stupendous appetite, they left the choice of dessert up to Ralph. He, of course, chose apple pie. <br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; <br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; <br /><div><br /></div>D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-20684255679742007582012-05-29T18:19:00.002-07:002012-05-29T18:19:26.672-07:00House<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;House<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The house sat at the end of a cul de sac hidden from the street by a lush growth of untrimmed lilacs, upper branches heavily laden down with deep purple flowers. The gate, wire mesh nailed onto a wooden frame, one hinge detached from its rotting post, the other holding on by one rusty screw, leaned off to the right of the entrance way. The walk showed some gravel but mostly weeds and the open space between the house and the lilacs was a wild jungle of vegetation. From the head of the walk the house did not look promising. When she walked up close and peered at it more closely it was even less promising. Yet she liked its location. She liked its sense of isolation.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Struggling through the high weeds, she walked around to the back. The walls were covered in the grayish asbestos shingles which hadn’t been put on houses for forty years. They had never been painted which was just as well for if they had, undoubtedly, the paint would be peeling off in tattered strips. As it was they were reasonably presentable with only the odd crack here and there. Grey caulking would fix that, cheap. On the south side the gutter was hanging from the facia with one end resting on the ground. She examined it closely and decided it was still serviceable. It just had to be reattached. The soffits and facia were OK. Probably spring ice buildup had torn off the gutter. The deck at the back had rot in it but it could be cut out and with a little bracing it would survive a few more years. The back yard was as much a tangled mess as the front. Along the back property line was a board fence, six feet high. The yard was small but big enough for what she wanted. The houses on either side were in much better shape. Did some old person grow decrepit and die here? She wondered. No money for maintenance? No strength to keep up the yard?<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;She reached in her pocket for the key the real estate agent gave her and mounted the back steps. Surprisingly the door was a steel, insulated one, although still with only the factory primer on it, and a little off kilter. The lock had been recently oiled and it opened easily. She stepped right into the kitchen. Big by today’s standards, built in a time when people spent more time in the kitchen. The cupboards were plywood but still in good shape. Worn linoleum on the floor. If an old person had died here then they had put their last strength into the cleaning for the kitchen was spotless. She walked the hall to the living room. Oak floors, beat up but not too badly. Pale blue wall recently painted. Picture window. Great for light but cold in the winter. Insulated drapes or even an old sleeping bag could be put over it during the worst of the winter. The stairs to the basement were steep and they creaked. The basement was a cellar not a rec room or a family room. Middle aged furnace. Water and electrical outlets for washing machine and dryer but no machines. The walls were fieldstone. Solid but they could use repointing.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Two bedrooms up a narrow staircase to the second floor. They were both the same size, clean, recently painted. Through the window of the east room you could see the street, long rows of elms on either side, modest, well kept yards and houses. She opened the window in the second bedroom, removed the screen, and stuck out her head to study the roof. Worn shingles but they would do for three or four years. The brick chimney leaned. Fortunately the lay of the roof meant it wasn’t very high – six feet maybe. Take it down to the roof and rebuild it with the same bricks. Cheap but a little bit of work. Making the staging would be half the job.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;The real estate agent was a thin, weary man. He had a habit of leaning to one side until it seemed he would fall over and then suddenly changing tack and leaning to the other. He wore a rumpled suit and, although his shoes were polished to a high, military shine, the laces were broken and tied together in a series of awkward knots. His tie was smeared with two large splotches of tomato ketchup. When she came into the office after seeing the house he was sitting in his desk chair, eyes closed, and seemed to be drifting off to sleep. When he sensed her presence he jumped to his feet and smiled apologetically.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It’s a fixer upper, no doubt about that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s why I was wondering why they are asking so much for it.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, you know the old saying.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, I don’t.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; The agent looked a bit shocked at this. “You don’t get what you don’t ask for.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;She had never heard this saying. Perhaps, being unable to remember old sayings, he simply made up his own.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Hmmm.” she said and looked at the calendar on the wall. Busty babe advertising Auto Parts. This struck her as funny but she didn’t allow that to show on her face. The busty babe was looking off into the distance with a dissatisfied expression on her face as if she had been expecting a part in a Broadway show and instead ended up on the auto parts calendar. Nevertheless she soldiered on, doing the best she could. The agent was embarrassed when he saw what she was looking at. She dropped her eyes and looked at his long, bony face. He would have been one of those skinny, obnoxious little boys whose main ambition in life was a peephole into the women’s washroom.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Will they come down?” she asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How much?’<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You could make an offer.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I know that but I’m trying to get an idea if it’s worth my while. How much do you think they’ll come down?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Quite a bit I would say. It’s been on the market for a while.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A percentage, perhaps?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Twenty-five let’s say.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How about fifty?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You could offer it but they’ll probably counter offer.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That would be OK.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That’s what they did. An old lady had owned the house and she died in the hospital three months ago. The vendor was a niece in another city. After a few offers and counter offers they settled on sixty percent of the asking price. While the papers were being processed the real estate agent was good enough to give her the key and she moved in right away. Hotels were expensive. Remembering the calendar she half expected him to come sniffing around presuming on the favour and was relieved when he didn’t. When they met at the lawyer’s office for the signing she promised that if she ever had need of a real estate agent she would phone him. Despite his appearance when she first met him he had been efficient, business like and friendly without any leering come ons. He gave her a neat, simple business card and smiled his apologetic smile. He had replaced the shoelaces and had on a new tie. He was wearing a wedding ring and when they walked together into the parking lot he told her he had five children. No wonder he looked so tired. His oldest boy was fifteen.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Does he do yard work?” she asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; “That boy will do anything you pay him for.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Send him over, then.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;She repointed the basement walls first. You couldn’t do that in the winter because the masonary cement wouldn’t stick. Into the cement she mixed a bonding agent. An old friend told her once that it helped. Luckily there was a casement door in the basement wall at the back so she didn’t have to carry the bags down the narrow basement stairs. She took her time and did a good job. She found it satisfying work. Simple and undemanding but satisfying. Next she repaired the gutters and downspout on the south side and did a few minor repairs to some of the others. For this she bought a ladder and a few simple tools. The next door neighbour told her where to go and the store delivered the ladder free.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;It was early summer. In the late afternoons she took a break and sat on the back deck drinking tea. One day she had just sat down when a gangly boy came around the corner of the house. He marched through the weeds purposefully as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. He seemed to know she was there for he moved towards her with a certain surety but how he knew puzzled her for he never looked at her directly. Perhaps like a bat he navigated by sonar. When he reached the bottom step, still without looking at her, he said,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dad said you wanted the weeds done.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This was not enunciated clearly. Rather it sounded like the mouth which sent it forth was full of peanuts and located in the bottom of a barrel. The boy was almost as tall as his father. He had long, unkempt, but not dirty hair. He was better looking than his father. The bones of his face were even and elegantly placed. Perhaps he took after his mother. After saying the above he, exactly like his father, leaned to one side. Then he leaned to the other. Maybe they came from a long line of seafarers. Maybe there was a gene for such a thing.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, I do. Would you like some tea?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This question seemed to throw him. He leaned from one side to the other in quick succession. He drew the fingers of his right hand through his hair. His throat emitted a few inchoate sounds not reaching the level of speech. Is there anything more painful than the self-consciousness of an adolescent boy? It’s a wonder so many manage to get through it. She, who was sometimes censorious of the older variety of male, could feel for him only a sympathetic compassion. She remembered her own skinny adolescence. Legs and embarrassments and terrible insecurities. But then it would be impossible for him to do work for her if he wouldn’t talk to her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Come up and sit in the other chair and I’ll put on another pot,” she said. When she turned to go into the kitchen she could hear him climbing the stairs. At least he didn’t freeze like a statue down there among the weeds. When she came back with the tea he seemed to have recovered somewhat. When she put his cup on the table he looked at her from the corner of one eye and said thank you.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;She decided that the brisk, business like manner would be the best.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“How long would it take to cut them all down and bundle them up for the garbage?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A day and a half.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;This surprised her. Not the day and a half for that was her rough calculation but that he had said it so quickly and clearly.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You’ve done this before, then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh yes. Otherwise we would starve to death.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;So incongruous was this statement that she almost laughed aloud. Fortunately he was looking at his shoes and didn’t notice her smile. She didn’t want him to think she was making fun of him. She thought for a moment and decided to ignore such a spectacular revelation would be a basic breach in the flow of conversation.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You would starve to death?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, I suppose not really but we do need the money.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “We?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dad and I and the others.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Your siblings?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“And mother?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Mom’s dead. But you don’t have to say you are sorry because she died two years ago.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“But I wouldn’t say I’m sorry because I didn’t even know her.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Most people say they are sorry when they hear.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, it’s the conventional thing to say, I suppose.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s what Dad says.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; She said nothing for a few moments which seemed to be OK with him. In fact, if left to his own devices he would perhaps sit there for several hours without saying anything. After enough time had passed to warrant a change of topic, she said,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“A day and a half then. So twelve hours. How much an hour?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You could make me an offer.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;She did.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s more than I usually get.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That’s OK. I don’t like to underpay. Then I feel guilty.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He smiled at this. A quirky, twisted smile which flashed quickly and then was gone.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“When?” she asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Tuesday?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Fine.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He rose and descended the stair so quickly it was as if as he had been pulled by some kind of gigantic magnet. At the bottom he paused and turned.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sometimes I bring Rosie. Is that OK?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Rosie?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“My sister.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Fine with me.”<br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You could perhaps pay her half of what you pay me.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“She does only half as much as you do?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Three quarters really.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Then we’ll pay her three quarters then.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;He smiled his twisted smile once again and was gone.<br /><br />&nbsp; <br />&nbsp; &nbsp; When they arrived Tuesday morning at eight o’clock she was attaching the front gate to the new post she had just installed. The rest of the fence would do for a while with a brace here and there and repainting. She saw them first as they turned onto the street a block away. They were pulling a large wagon, full, she supposed, with tools. When they came up he said hello while looking at the house next door but Rosie looked at her directly and smiled.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“This is Rosie,” he said in the same tone you might use to introduce a cat or a ferret.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Hello Rosie.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Pleased to meet you,” said Rosie who was obviously on her best behavior. She was almost as tall as her brother and looked into Claire’s face with a bright, curious cheerfulness. Whoever had chosen the name Rosie had no prescience whatever. Rosie had such pale skin that if she were to play Dracula’s wife in a show she would have no need for makeup. Like her brother she was lanky and like him, in the female version, she had a beautiful face. Her hair was jet black, setting off the pale skin of her face strikingly.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Perhaps you would like to have tea before you start.”<br /><br />&nbsp; “No thanks,” said Michael. Rosie seemed disappointed but she accepted that he was the boss, at least for the present moment. They unloaded the wagon. Claire was impressed by the tools. A heavy duty weed wacker. Oiled shears. Rakes. “We’ll start in the back.” Said Michael and they carried their things to the rear of the house. The weed wacker started up.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Claire finished the gate by nine thirty and went in to the house to make tea. She put the pot on a tray with a plate of cookies and carried them out to the back deck. She had to shout to be heard over the weed wacker. Micheal turned it off and came up the stairs. Rosie followed behind. She had been raking and bundling and carrying the bundles to the garbage in the back lane. They sat at the table and Claire poured them tea.<br /><br />&nbsp; “How far did you come with the wagon?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“From home,” said Michael.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Which is?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Only three blocks from here,” said Rosie.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Michael was throwing sideways glances at the cookies. Maybe he was starving to death. “Go ahead,” said Claire. He reached out and took two, downing them in a matter of seconds. Rosie took one and gently nibbled. Perhaps this is a play of stereotypes thought Claire but she suspected Rosie was doing a learned rather than natural thing. The learning didn’t last long. With the second cookie she was as quick and business like as Michael. When there were two left on the plate Claire insisted they have one each. “I made them to be eaten,” she said. She didn’t have to say this twice. When they finished their tea they went back to work.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Claire made them lunch. Michael protested but Rosie did not join in. Instead she set into the sandwiches as voraciously as if she were a longshoreman. Michael joined her, keeping, or at least it seemed to Claire, a rough calculation of Rosie’s lead. Rosie was aware. When they were finished they each had exactly four sandwiches. They also polished off another plate of cookies, two pots of tea and went back to work.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When they were finished for the day Claire offered them supper but Rosie said they had to go home and cook supper for the younger ones. “Dad doesn’t get home until six,” she said. Claire directed them to the casement door and they put the wagon and tools in the basement.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They finished the next morning just before noon. Rosie and Michael loaded the tools on to the wagon. They did a very good job and Claire was delighted. She literally couldn’t have done it better herself and she was a perfectionist. She counted out the money on the back deck table. She included a generous tip. Michael started to protest but Rosie reached out a slim hand to grab the money and put it in her pocket. She did this very gracefully and very quickly as if she had lots of practice. Claire looked at her questioningly and Rosie said,<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“He’s the boss but I handle the money.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Michael laughed. “It’s true you know. Dad’s income is intermittent and it’s Rosie who manages to pay the bills. She’s afraid I’ll spend it on beer. Aren’t you, Rosie?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “On too much beer,” Rosie corrected.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They wouldn’t stay for lunch but Claire brought out a tray of tea and cookies. Rosie watched her set the tray on the table and then asked, “So what do you do for a living?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I paint. Pictures.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You manage to sell enough around here to make a living?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I exhibit in studios in the big cities. I don’t imagine you could sell much of what I paint around here. It’s mostly realism here. Landscapes and animals. I’m an expressionist. Do you know what that means?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Like Klee.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, exactly. He’s one of my favourites.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dad writes poetry,” said Michael. “That’s why we are broke he says but he can’t help himself.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Better to have a poor happy dad than a rich unhappy one,” said Rosie.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Dad’s always reading,” said Michael. “The whole house is loaded with books. Rosie and I have to holler at him to go out and sell houses. Left to himself he would stay home and read books and hide from bill collectors. He’s a bit crazy.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh?” said Rosie. “I’d be willing to bet most of the other fathers around are crazier than Dad.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I was exaggerating, Rosie, for God’s sakes.” He looked at Claire. “She’s Dad’s main defender. Not that he really needs one. He’s pretty slippery. When things are really bad he can still sit at the kitchen table and write as if nothing was happening. Dad’s tougher than you think. Rosie thinks he’s sensitive and suffering but really he’s tougher than an old boot.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Claire didn’t know what to say to these revelations so she asked. “Do you own your own house?’<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.” Said Michael. “Mom bought it back in the old days with money she got from her family. It’s rickety and the back taxes are adding up but it’s ours.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“It’s not as bad as he says it is,” said Rosie. “He likes to dramatize things.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No, I don’t.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Rosie ignored this. “Him and Dad are pretty well the same you know. Emotionally extravagant. That’s why he says terrible things about Dad. He’s really talking about himself.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Michael looked up at the clear sky and sighed. Then he brought his eyes down to Claire’s face and asked, “Married, are you?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Never bothered then?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well, I’ve had boyfriends but I never married.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You’ll have to come over for supper then.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;That this formerly shy young man would look at her so boldly and talk so directly so amazed Claire that she didn’t say anything.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Saturday would be best,” said Rosie. “That’s the night I cook so you won’t die of food poisoning or choke on hard things when you are supposed to be eating soft. The little one’s cook on Mondays and you would want to avoid that at all costs.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Well I guess. Sure. Why not?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When they got up and started down the stairs Claire called after them. “Did you ask your Dad about this?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh no,” said Rosie. “If we told him too much before hand he would just get all nervous.”<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;When she arrived at the address they had given her three younger children were sitting on the front step. They had the characteristic jet black hair and pale face and as she came up the walk they watched her in the intense, unselfconscious way that young children have. When she came to the steps the oldest, a girl who looked like she was stamped from the same imprint as Rosie, stood and held out her hand. Claire held out hers and they shook. “I’m Consuela,” she said, “and this is Peter and Gilly.” Peter also held out his hand to shake but Gilly, who was perhaps three, buried her face in her hands and began to wail. “Gilly!” said Consuela, “what in heaven’s name is the matter with you?” &nbsp;This admonishment had no effect whatever on Gilly, who continued to wail. Consuela smiled sheepishly at Claire. “She’s not much more than a baby.” Then she reached down and swept the little girl up in her arms and carried her into the house. Peter and Claire followed along behind.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They passed through a short hallway with a closet off to the left and entered a large double room. At the back of this was the entrance to the kitchen. The room nearest the kitchen contained a long table, covered with a white tablecloth and already set for dinner. Toward the front of the house were three beat up sofas covered with threadbare blankets. A coffee table holding appetizers was in the center of the sofas. Michael came out from the kitchen and guided her to a seat. He reached out and pulled the coffee table close to her.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“If I’m not here don’t let Gilly get at these. She loves chips and peanuts and then won’t eat her supper. Plus sometimes she eats so much she gets sick. Dad would be here right now but he had to show a house. He should be here in five minutes or so. He says to apologize for him.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“O that’s OK. I don’t mind.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Michael went back into the kitchen. Peter had seated himself opposite her on another sofa and told her he had recently scored three soccer goals in a single match. Claire acted suitably impressed and told him she played soccer when she was young.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Did you score goals?” Peter asked.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I played defense but every once in a while I came up the middle and scored.” Peter thought about this for a minute and then looked at her somewhat pityingly. He found it hard to understand why someone would want to play defense.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Consuela came in, still carrying Gilly, who had stopped crying and managed to look at Claire out of the corner of one eye.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Gilly, come and have a chip,” said Claire. The bowl was sitting directly in front of her on the coffee table. Gilly wiggled down out of Consuela’s arms and came over to the other side of the table. From there, with her head bowed, she looked at Claire suspiciously from the tops of her eyes. Claire concentrated on the chips. She took a handful and began munching them. Without taking her eyes off Claire, Gilly reached out and took a handful herself. She retreated to the far sofa and stuffed them slowly and methodically into her mouth. When she was finished she came back for more. Claire ignored Michael’s advice and let her have another handful. The other children didn’t say anything.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; Ten minutes later Sandy Milford came in the door. By then Gilly was sitting on the same sofa as Claire but at the far end.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m terribly sorry,” he said to Claire. “My partner was supposed to do this one but then he got drunk.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Don’t worry about it. It was only a few moments and I got to talk to the children.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Michael came out from the kitchen and asked people to sit at the table. When they had done so Rosie made her first appearance carrying a gigantic pot of beef stew. Michael came behind with salad in one hand, homemade bread in the other. “Did everyone meet Claire?” Sandy asked and they all said yes or nodded their head excepting Gilly who had taken the chair beside Claire and was handing her the butter. Then, with a ten second pause led by Sandy, but no grace, or at least no aloud and wordy grace, they set to. The stew was delicious. The homemade bread, all three loaves, was delectable. For desert they had chocolate pudding served in long stemmed dishes. Michael ate three plates of stew. Gilly ate three spoonfuls until Rosie saying she could have no pudding if she didn’t eat more, led her to eating three more. Sandy sat with his back straight and ate two plates of stew with great concentration and relish. Claire usually limited herself to one helping but the stew was so good she had one and a half. She ate all of her chocolate pudding although normally she wouldn’t eat any. When they were finished she offered to help clean up but Rosie and Michael would have none of it. Saturday the little kids clean up. Michael and Rosie cleared the table and the little kids, corralled by Consuela, headed into the kitchen to do the dishes.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Claire and Sandy sat on opposite sofas in the living room. Michael and Rosie said goodbye on their way out somewhere. Dishes were rattling in the kitchen. Gilly was complaining about something or other in a high whiny voice.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You’ll have to forgive them, “ Sandy said. “They seem to think I am terribly unhappy and lonely and every once in a while they do their matchmaking act. I hope it doesn’t bother you too much. I know what they are like. You would think they are shy little lambs and suddenly they pounce on you and you don’t have a chance. Let me assure you I didn’t put them up to this. They are incorrigible and ignore everything I say on the matter.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I can imagine. I don’t mind. Michael and Rosie are fascinating young people and that they would do something like this is part of their fascination. It doesn’t bother me. I still plan to ask them to do my lawn. Do they have a lawnmower?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Two.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Good. I won’t have to buy one.” Claire had noticed there was nothing on the walls of the living room dining room. “Want some pictures for your walls?” <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m afraid I can’t afford to buy paintings. Rosie said you make a living from selling in the big centers.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, but I give them away free sometimes too. I believe you should do that at least once in a while or you get greedy.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Sure then. I don’t paint myself but sometimes I spend a day at the library looking at the big books of paintings. And I go to the galleries on occasion. Sometimes I envy painters. I know I’m speaking from the outside but painting seems to me more concrete than poetry. But that may be a case of the grass is greener.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t know because I don’t write poetry. But maybe you are right. In painting you can occupy yourself with journeyman things until something strikes. But then again I suppose you can in poetry as well.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes you can. So maybe it’s just a case of the love hate relationship anybody has with something they put a lot of time and energy into.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Consuela came in from the kitchen carrying a tray containing tea and cookies. Gilly and Peter watched from the kitchen door. When she put the tray on the coffee table, Consuela went back into the kitchen, the others following in her wake. <br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“When we finish this we can take a walk if you like.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “OK.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;And so they did, walking around the neighbourhood streets, talking painting and poetry and looking at houses. He walked her to her house and politely refused when she asked him in for tea.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Rosie and Michael began to do her lawn. Every Friday they showed up with the lawnmower and the weedwacker for the edges. They always came before lunch and Claire fed them. Three weeks after the meal at the Milfords, when she finally had her kitchen set to rights, Claire invited them over for a Saturday supper. The children left afterwards but Sandy stayed on, first to talk on the back deck and then later to have sex with her in the big bed on the second floor. Rosie and Micheal, on the walk home were bringing up the rear. “Didn’t I tell &nbsp;you?” she said. “Good ole sex will do it every time.” Micheal was disgusted with this. That his Father might soon be doing the act he found revolting. But he didn’t say anything for Rosie had a sharp tongue and he was tired and didn’t want her launching her missiles at him.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;In the post coital Claire said. “I couldn’t live in a house full of kids.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Neither can I.” She laughed. “Maybe you could just take a few of them once in a while.” She laughed again. A strange, quirky man.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t want to get married.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Neither do I.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I mean it would be nice to have sex once in a while and dinners.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t have much money and I can be very moody.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I can be very moody and don’t have much money either.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The kids could come for supper Tuesdays and Thursdays. I could manage that.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“You don’t have to do that.” &nbsp; &nbsp;“I know I don’t have to but I would like to.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“ I’ll ask them.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; “Will they?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“The asking would be a formality. Of course they will. A delicious meal in someone else’s house. Heaven. They’ll have to clean up though. Otherwise they’ll grow slack. And there is the cost. They eat like horses as you no doubt have noticed.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“That won’t be a problem.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“No.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t want to have children either.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“ I already have plenty.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;There was a pause in which they examined the flickering shadows cast on the ceiling by the candle. He turned on his side and examined her profile in the half light.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I have a beat up old cabin in the country an hour away. You could spend some time painting there if you like. The kids and I spend August there. Just the younger ones now. Rosie and Michael have yard care but they come up on the bus on the weekends. “<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“I could drive them.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“They would love that. But what about your work?”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;“Five days a week is enough. Too much is as bad as too little.”<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;They made love twice more before they went to sleep.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;Michael put the little kids to bed. Peter and Consuela went on their own but Gilly he rocked in the rocking chair for half an hour before she went to sleep. After he put her in bed he came into the kitchen where Rosie was talking on the phone to one of her friends. “Dad’s a sex maniac, big time,” she was saying. “After all where do you think all we kids came from?”<br />PAGE <br /><br /><br />PAGE &nbsp;14<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2629578662532629862.post-87611489694146117602012-05-29T18:11:00.001-07:002012-05-29T18:11:26.088-07:00The Old Painter<br />The Old Painter<br /><br />Raoul and Alexandra moved into a newly bought house in December, two weeks before Christmas. Raoul was away on conference so it was left to Alexandra to oversee the movers - bulky young men who clumped up and down the stairs depositing boxes in the assigned rooms. Alexandra was very organized. On the door to each room was a square of Bristol board with a number and on each box was a corresponding number neatly printed in permanent black marker. The movers were appreciative. Usually unloading the truck into a house involved confused instructions and backtracking.<br /><br />Many young women would have resented their husband being away during a move but not Alexandra. She disliked the packing but Raoul had been present for that. The unpacking she loved and to be able to do it free of Raoul’s interference was wonderful. It took her five days, delicious days full of the texture of curtains, the colors of bathrooms and the arrangements of kitchen counters. When Raoul came home everything was done. Except for the arrangements in his clothing drawers he changed around to conform to an eccentric pattern left over from his bachelor days, he changed nothing. This was a good thing, for Alexandra, although she would have said nothing at the time, would have been displeased. If you want to decide, she would have thought, then you should bloody well be here during the deciding.<br /><br />Alexandra was an accountant. Happily her company gave her a week off for the move. When Raoul came back they both resumed their regular schedule, a heavy one with Raoul traveling and Alexandra taking courses and attending board meeting two evenings a week. Of course they had looked at the houses surrounding before they bought but such looking at houses is often cursory, especially since they both fell in love with their own house the moment they saw it. The two cars were parked on a pad at the back so other than a quick view of garbage cans and garages along the lane on the way to and from work, when spring arrived they had only a vague notion of the houses along the street. When the snow was melted and they emerged, like two animals squinting after a winter’s hibernation into the world of grass and flowerbeds they were surprised to find the house next door somewhat dilapidated. This was not the standard of the neighborhood, otherwise scrupulously neat, spiffy, and even a little military in its sparkling perfection.<br /><br />Raoul was disappointed. “Somebody should do something,” he said. “Look at it. Weeds are growing in the gutters. Some of the siding has been torn off. The porch has a ten degree list. The front fence is rotting and falling down. Perhaps we should phone the Alderman.”<br /><br />“Probably an old person lives there,” replied Alexandra. “Someone who can no longer do the work to keep it up and has no money to pay contractors.”<br /><br />“Whatever the reason,” said Raoul, “it’s a wreck. We didn’t pay the kind of money we did for the house to be living alongside a wreck.”<br /><br />After further discussion Alexandra convinced him to leave it alone for now. She thought it unwise to have their introduction to the neighborhood to be squealing to the authorities about their neighbor’s house. She had met some of the kind of people who did that and had no desire to join their ranks. Besides she liked the old house. The south side was covered with Virginia creeper now coming into bud. A three story, the top floor had an interesting array of six dormers. The windows on the main floor had beautiful old style curtains hanging in them, a pale shade of garden green. Granted the front porch was somewhat the worst for wear and listing, but what she could see of its inside was comfortable and homey with wicker table and chairs and a hammock. Since it was Alexandra who did most of the work in the yard – Raoul disliked physical work preferring to spend his spare time watching movies or on the computer – he soon forgot about the house next door. Alexandra, however, saw it every day when she was cutting the grass or working in the beds. Several times she saw a shadowy figure sitting in the front porch drinking tea. Alexandra waved and the figure waved back.<br /><br />One Saturday at the end of May Alexandra decided to do the neighborly. She peeped through the curtain in her own front porch and saw the figure sitting at the table. Carrying a bag containing six banana muffins she baked that morning, she made her way to the neighbor’s front porch and knocked at the door.<br /><br />“Come in,” said an elderly voice.<br /><br />Alexandra did as she was requested and found the shadowy figure to be a very old woman, certainly late eighties but maybe even into her nineties. She sat in a stuffed chair &nbsp;watching Alexandra enter with a pair of bright blue eyes which, in vivacity and liveliness would rival those of many twenty year olds. The porch was rich with the scent of herbs. Along the front windows, which went the length of the porch were three shelves filled with an assortment of coffee and jam cans interspersed with pottery pots of various colors and glazings, all spilling over or rising high with herbs. They sweetened the air of the room with several dozen aromas which swirled around one another as if by standing still one was walking through a country field filled with herbs and flowers.<br /><br />“The smell is gorgeous!” she exclaimed.<br /><br />“Thank you, dear. Or perhaps I should thank you on behalf of the herbs. After all I am only their caretaker.”<br /><br />Alexandra moved along the shelves looking at the plants. She could recognize, sage, thyme, summer savory, fennel, lemon balm, basil, rosemary and mint.<br /><br />“I had a herb garden at the old place but nothing like this. Why there must be three dozen.”<br /><br />“About thirty,” said the old lady, “but some are duplicates. If you want to start a garden at your new house then I can supply you. The garden places charge a fortune for herbs, even just the seeds, whereas I can give you sections of root and plant which will grow full within six weeks and all for nothing. It’s one of my missionary enterprises you see. I haven’t supplied anyone for a few years now. One’s contemporaries die off and one loses contact. But in the old days I must have supplied twenty of the neighborhood women and the odd man over the years.”<br /><br />“I would appreciate that very much,” said Alexandra.<br /><br />“Done then my dear. All you have to do is pick a time and show up with as many pots or cans as you would like.”<br /><br />They made an appointment for later in the week. Alexandra introduced herself. The old lady’s name was Regina, an appropriate name for she was a very queenly looking woman. Even in old age she had a regal bearing, a kind of distinction to her. Framing those intense blue eyes was a finely boned face draped with the almost translucent skin of the very old. Her hair, full and combed into a bun at the back, was so shockingly white it seemed to shine in the half light of the porch. She was wearing a blue linen housedress and a dark purple sweater with two gigantic pockets from which peeped a pair of scissors, three knitting needles, a tall glass jar of something or other, a notebook, three pens, two pencils and several multicolored rags.<br /><br />Alexandra gave Regina the muffins and the old lady went inside to the kitchen returning shortly with a tray of tea things.<br /><br />In five minutes they were talking as if they had known one another all their lives. Although Alexandra had told Raoul that she would be back in a few minutes she didn’t return until two hours later.<br /><br />That spring and summer Regina and Alexandra saw a lot of one another. Alexandra helped the old woman turn over her beds before planting. Regina filled fifteen coffee cans Alexandra had saved over the winter with herbs. Alexandra set them atop a stone flowerbed wall in the backyard, guarding them against being knocked or blown over with bamboo canes and string. They spent many hours in Regina’s porch talking of gardening, the neighborhood, who lived where and for how long. Although she was advanced in age Regina was very much on top of things. If two seven years olds strolled by on the sidewalk, arms around one another’s shoulders, headed toward the playground at the end of the street, she could tell you their names, who their parents were and what school they went to. But it was not until the fall that something happened which increased their intimacy.<br /><br />One Saturday, on a cool day in early September, Regina, for the first time, invited Alexandra into her kitchen. Later, upon reflection, Alexandra figured that the old woman had been cleaning all summer in preparation. The counters, the floor, the glass jars holding food on the long lines of open shelves, were sparkling clean. Regina, with a cane to help her, was quite mobile, yet, as she herself said, she had so much time each day and then that was it. The work involved in this cleaning must have taken her weeks.<br /><br />But it was not the kitchen, impressive as it was, which drew Alexandra’s attention. To get to it one passed through the living room/dining room, a large area thirty feet by thirty. The walls of these rooms were hung with paintings, some oils, some acrylics overlaid with watercolors, all painted on masonite panels three feet square. Some were framed with narrow strapping painted mat black; others were not framed at all but hung from a piece of plywood glued to the back of the panel. These paintings were gorgeous. Although the room was not well lit with natural light and the electric lights were not turned on, they shone with a radiance Alexandra found stunning. The artist had used mostly primaries but in such a variety of textures and shadings, although they were not realist in any way, they gave the impression of a reality much deeper than literal realism. The shapes and forms they depicted and what could only be called their flow, their effervescence, was mesmerizing, magical. While Regina continued on to the kitchen Alexandra could not help herself from stopping in front of the panels and gawking. Regina seemed to feel what was going on. She busied herself making tea and laying the table. When things were ready she called the younger woman and Alexandra broke herself away from the paintings’ spell and came to sit at the kitchen table.<br /><br />“You like them then,” Regina said.<br /><br />“Like is too tame a word, Regina,” Alexandra replied. “They are breathtaking.”<br /><br />“O how Dominic would have loved to hear that!” said Regina. “He liked to pretend he was indifferent to both praise and censure but, of course, he wasn’t. No human being is and Dominic, as much as he sometimes claimed otherwise, was a very human human being.”<br /><br />&nbsp;“Do you mean Dominic Leblanc?” Alexandra asked.<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“My god, Regina. You have a million dollars worth of paintings hanging on your walls.”<br /><br />“More than that my dear. I would say about twelve million. Dominic and I were lovers and over the years he gave me his very best. The surgeon thought he was getting first pick but he wasn’t. Dominic let him chose only from the second rank.”<br /><br />&nbsp;When they were finished tea and cookies they went back to the paintings. Regina sat in a chair while Alexandra went from panel to panel, first looking at them from different angles, then standing directly in front ten feet away and letting them bewitch her into the world of Dominic Leblanc. When she was through she started over again, stopping here and there to ask Regina questions about technique and colors.<br /><br />“Dominic was endlessly inventive,” the old woman said. “He had no standard set of colors or procedures and held those who did in contempt. He was given a great talent which remained fluid right until the end. I suppose he had his moments of depression but they never stopped him from working and working to him was experimenting, inventing, changing, trying this and throwing it out and then trying something else. Most of the acrylic colors you see are house paint. He had a house painter friend who gave him paint left over from his jobs. His pantry was piled to the ceiling with paint cans. But this didn’t stop him from using fancy stuff in tubes if he could get his hands on it for nothing or next to nothing. And he worked up the house paints with other material to give it various qualities he was looking for. Some of the brighter surfaces are lead based enamels which you can’t buy any more. Most of the watercolors are from cheap children’s sets he bought at garage sales or flea markets. At the end he found a little shop in the old downtown which sold watercolor cakes cheap like borsch. They made color with a flaky grainy texture that he loved. I saw him once mix strained river mud into a soup can of bright white. He was so happy with the results he danced around the kitchen singing. When he painted that onto the panel he took it out into the yard and let it dry in the sun. After it was dry and baked hard he fixed it with three or four coats of clear acrylic and then painted over it with a translucent yellow watercolor. Over this a thin spray of sealer and then, with his awl he poked a thousand tiny holes through to the panel and covered the whole thing with a towel soaked in black tea. When he took off the towel and dried it once again in the sun he used it as a base over which he painted a world of ducks, pheasants, small woodland animals like badgers and squirrels, and a series of mountain ranges with blue boats sailing along their ridges. He sold that one to the surgeon who was so delighted with it he paid Dominic a hundred dollars more than he asked. A hundred dollars was a lot in those days.”<br /><br />Fortunately Raoul was off to another conference that weekend. Alexandra stayed four hours examining the paintings, asking Regina endless questions and she would have stayed another four if she had not feared overtiring her. She went home exalted. After a quick sandwich for supper she went to her studio on the third floor and worked until three in the morning.<br /><br />On Thanksgiving day Raoul was once again off at sales conference south of the border and Alexandra and Regina decided to have Thanksgiving dinner at a downtown hotel. They dressed in their finest and took a taxi. The Maitre De tried to seat them at a table near the entrance where there was a cold draft but Regina would have none of that.<br /><br />“That table over there,” she said, pointing with her cane, “ is in a better location and is empty.”<br /><br />“Well, madam,” said the Maitre De, “It is empty now, but…..”<br /><br />“”Of course it is,” said Regina, “but that’s because we have not got to it yet.” And with this she led an embarrassed and amused Alexandra across the floor to sit at the table. The Maitre De frowned and shrugged his shoulders.<br /><br />When he was gone Regina said, “O dear, now we will have to tip him an extra five percent to sooth his ruffled feathers.”<br /><br />After a supper which did not measure up to the either the prices announced in the menu or the supposed prestige of the hotel, Alexandra brought the conversation around to Dominic LeBlanc. Regina eyes sparkled with amusement.<br /><br />“Alright, my dear. I know a young woman like you, a painter herself, filled with the curiosity of the young, infused with admiration for Dominic’s paintings, is not going to be satisfied unless I spill the beans. I don’t mind. Dominic himself was not a secretive man. Private in many ways but not secretive. He used to say that secretive persons &nbsp;over estimate the worth of their secrets. It was his opinion that only fools worry about what others know or think about him. ‘The trick,’ he was fond of saying, ‘is to do your best and let the chips fall where they may.’ ”<br /><br />“Dominic was a bum pure and simple,” said Regina. “All he cared about was books and paintings and any woman who became involved with him was a fool, including me. Not that he was a womanizer, mind you. During the thirty-four years we were together I don’t think he touched another woman. But I think this was due less to faithfulness than that he was loath to give time to affairs and intrigues and thus take it away from his books and paintings. Of all my men he was the most physically capable, an imaginative and tireless lover. It is not uncommon with men that after the first rush of passion they become patterned and boring lovers. Not so with Dominic. The last time we made love was just as vigorous and powerful as the first.”<br /><br />“Then why do you call him a bum?” asked Lolinda.<br /><br />“Money, dear. He was one of those brilliant men who refuse to be sensible and pragmatic about money. All his life he was pillar to post about money. He lived in a little house down by the river so crumbling and dilapidated that even rats wouldn’t live there. &nbsp;Although he was a wonderful painter whose works are now in the galleries, praised by the sons and grandsons of the cultural post holders he despised and held in distain, he refused to lift a finger to better himself. Would Dominic call on this gallery owner with a portfolio? Of course he would, right away, tomorrow in fact. And then you would empty his kitchen garbage into the outside container some months later and there was the note with the address on it crumpled, tea stained, tossed probably on the very day you gave it to him. If you asked him about it he would get into a towering rage. “I hate them!” he would shout. “The very sight of their greedy pig faces fills me with disgust. I would rather be tortured with hot irons for a month than to spend one second in the presence of such people. Liars. Calculators, eaters of horse shit!” His comments on gallery owners was mild compared to his opinions on ‘critics’, for there were some in town who considered themselves critics but who in truth were shills for the latest nihilism coming from America. His opinions of these toadies was so scatological that even I, a liberal old lady past caring what people think of me, hesitate to repeat them.”<br /><br /><br />“He survived by taking odd jobs. He was a caretaker for a while and then a window washer. Sometimes he went from door to door soliciting work. He would install storm windows, cut grass, even walk the dog. As a result in the neighborhood he was known not as a painter, an artist, but as an odd jobs man. It was strange to go out walking with Dominic. He knew everyone, children, housewives, widows. It was like walking in a public place with a politician, a popular one that is, for Dominic was always gracious and humorous with these people, especially with the children. Although he had no children of his own he adored them. One day when I was suggesting he enter a competition held by the local Art Society, in as diplomatic a way as possible so as not to set him off on one of his rants, he turned his long sad face to look at me. He waited until I was finished and then said, “Don’t you see, dear Regina, that such people are not interested in art but in artifacts. Their brains are pickled in conventionalities and all the customary drivel of social role playing. Bringing real art before them would be like reading the Sermon on the Mount to a crocodile.”<br /><br />“In forty years of painting he sold perhaps a hundred pieces, mostly to a single man, an Eye Surgeon. The Surgeon was a kind and generous man but even then Dominic, for a whole lifetime of painting, received a paltry few thousand dollars. And now a single small piece is worth in the hundreds of thousands. I hear that the Surgeon’s grandson now administrates a fortune based on the clever manipulation of the value of Dominic’s paintings after his death.”<br /><br />“Did he ever borrow money from you?”<br /><br />“Dominic? No, no. Dominic would rather die of starvation than borrow money or take any kind of handout. The single exception to this rule was food. He had a ravenous appetite and although he could tell the difference between well cooked food and the other kind, he wasn’t picky. I suppose his circumstances wouldn’t allow it to be any other way. He would let me take him out to dinner on occasion. He would dress in his best clothes, classics he bought at second hand stores and looked after with the meticulousness of an old maid. Wools mostly which were truly beautiful and shone in the soft light of the restaurants we went to. Dominic had a bit of the repressed dandy in him. In restaurants he was very gay. He would joke with the waitresses and insist on adding a little of his own money to the tip. He called our restaurant trips his ‘vacations from the glorious life of sensual poverty’. Isn’t that a strange thing to say? Dominic was like that. Full of strange, quirky thoughts and sudden explosions. Despite how exasperated he sometimes made me in those days, I miss him. Compared to Dominic most men are very boring. Even at the end when he was dying Dominic could make me laugh so loudly that afterwards I felt like a fishwife. He had a way of demolishing everything and revealing the world to you as totally ludicrous, totally absurd.”<br /><br />“Did he paint you?” asked Alexandra.<br /><br />“No. He didn’t paint the human figure. He had weird notions about that just like he had weird notions about almost everything else. He called the nude paintings of the great masters pornography. Not that he objected to pornography mind you; he thought it had a proper and rightful place in art but he found the idealist critics to be prudes and puritans. In fact he once told me that in a way all paintings and works of art are pornography in the sense that they arouse us, although a more focused definition he admitted, would be that they arouse us genitally. But he claimed the difference between these two arousals is far less clear than most people think. He claimed in a post Christian society, encumbered as it is with all sorts of pruderies and repressions, intelligent discussion of such topics was impossible. For instance he once told me Donatello’s ‘David’ was spoken about by critics as a work of pure art when to Donatello and to any honest observer Dominic claimed, it was obviously an erotic object, a pornographic work. But since admitting it to be such would have confined to the basement a magnificent piece of work so radiant in its Eros as to call up the repressed bisexual in even the most heterosexual of men, it was explained in idealist terms which, to any human ten percent aware of their own sexuality, was patently absurd. But then Dominic claimed that patent absurdities formed the great bulk of human discourse. That’s why, he said, he chose to live his life as a worker, a craftsman, as far away as possible from that river of lies, self promotions, chicaneries, demagogueries, self serving pieties and rotting delusions.”<br /><br />After this great mouthful of words Regina paused for a deep breath and then laughed. “My goodness I’m beginning to sound like him,” she said. Then she continued. “He did put some human figures in his paintings but they were always part of a panorama, a much larger scene. A single human figure or even group of figures were never the focus not for any intellectual or idealist reason he once told me but because he simply did not see the world that way. Humans could not be separated from their environment, the world of nature with its deaths and rebirths which in turn was enveloped in the great cosmos with its violence, its cataclysmic eruptions. He saw the art where human beings were placed at what he called a sentimental center, although often sublime and full of wonders, as degenerate. We are temporary and a part of a whole he said and a painting should have that essential reality at its core. It should show in some way the fire that burns from inside all things including the human and hurdles them towards their dissolution. This is why he claimed real artists are lonely people. They have come to live in a place all others studiously avoid as morbid or misanthropic.”<br /><br />“Did you stay together until he died?” Alexandra asked.<br /><br />“O yes. No, there was no way of getting rid of Dominic once you had him. You had to rely on God to do that for you. I went over twice a week to eat at his place which was very messy. He refused to let me bring things to eat but he did allow me to bring clean sheets for the bed. Dominic washed his only once a month although personally he was meticulously clean. He bathed as soon as he got up in the morning before he started painting. As a lover he was very considerate about cleanliness. His wretched hot water heater, left over from the Victorian Age, could do only one bath so before I came he put two enormous pots of water on the woodstove for my bath. He took the first and then carried the water for mine. Then he would sit in the bed reading a book, waiting for me. In many ways he was a sweet and considerate man but coiled, if you know what I mean. It was as if his mind was always in the process of compressing springs which would then pop in the most unexpected of ways. This made him interesting, original but not very restful. I did once ask him why he never painted me. He said he took the same attitude toward painting a lover or any other human being for that matter – very complimentary I’m sure – as the Muslims do. Contrary to popular opinion, he claimed, the Muslims did not interdict images for reasons of prudery but because the reality of creation was too complex to be depicted, especially if it were expressed in a human being with whom we shared love and sexual passion. It was like trying to paint the inside of our own heart - an impossibility.”<br /><br />“And what about the renaissance painters then?” I asked him.<br /><br />“They didn’t paint human beings,” he told me once “They painted projections of human beings. Botticelli painted his lovers or those he wished he had as lovers – willowy northern Italian blonds with large breasts. Many of the homosexuals painted muscle bound men, the ancient equivalent of modern body builders. They were painting their sexual fantasies, not human beings.”<br /><br />“And what about modern painters, Picasso for instance.”<br /><br />“ Picasso disliked women,” he said. “He was all ambition and phallus. So he chopped them up or made them ugly in an attempt to reduce their power over him. It’s a good thing he was a great painter or he might have become a mass murderer, one of those guys who wears a cape of women’s body parts in private rituals of perversion.”<br /><br />“Those are some of the things he used to say to me in bed or while we were having coffee at his kitchen table. The table he got out of the back lanes along with just about everything else he had in the house – the furniture, the bed, the mattress, the cutlery, bowls, coffee pot, and so on. The house was messy but I must admit that he did make an effort to clean it up before I came. The kitchen was neat at least. Everything was old and worn, from the linoleum, whose pattern had disappeared many years before, to the curtains which were so threadbare he may as well have used plastic wrap. The shelves he made himself from wood he got from the back lanes, odds and ends which he ingenuously put together to serve his own purposes. In a way it was fascinating because it was so individual, so adapted to his personality. Most people’s kitchens are out of a magazine or some memory from their childhood but Dominic’s was a constructed from a joining of his mind with the old junk he could pick up in the lanes. Sometimes we would sit there talking in the light of an oil lamp because his electricity had been cut off. The yellow light of the lamp played on the wood surfaces of the shelves, bare for he refused to ‘cover up such beauty with ugly paint’ as he put it. The wood stove, a huge old range which took up one quarter of the kitchen’s floor space, and which he had polished with stove black, one of the few things he actually bought, shone darkly, a silent black rock jutting into the sea of our conversations.”<br /><br />“Sometimes after supper, sex and conversation we would go down to the river behind the house. Dominic kept a wooden boat there, one he had built himself, so old and patched with so many odds and ends of plywood, sealed with roofing tar that it’s color was mostly black although it had originally been yellow. I didn’t trust Dominic’s boat so bought two life vests which I brought with me every time I came to visit for he didn’t like them and was not above letting them drift off in the current one day if I left them with the boat. I wouldn’t climb aboard until he put his on and tied it securely. Dominic would row us up river for a mile or two and then we drifted back down with the current, Dominic using one of the oars as a rudder. When I think of him now the times on the river are one of my favorites to remember. Dominic who always claimed he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, always made sure we were on the river on full moon nights, and despite all the wretched popular songs written about such scenes, it was truly magical - the moonlight spread like a milky way across the water, the quiet lapping of the current against the banks, the night birds singing in the trees. Dominic and I, both big talkers, never said a word on our journeys in the rowboat. We were as silent as two cloistered monks.”<br /><br />“A few of the paintings at your house which remind me of such a scene,” said Alexandra.<br /><br />“O yes. It was one of his big themes. He must have made twenty or thirty paintings ‘jumping off’ the river in the moonlight. “Jumping off’ was the term he used. He claimed doing a painting was a matter of negotiating a series of emotions and to begin one needed a reference point. The river in moonlight was one of his reference points. He claimed the reference point was less important than what one did in the middle of the painting but at the same time without one where would one start? He said the mid point in any painting was the most important. By then something should have taken over and the whole thing proceed in an orderly matter back to the beginning and then to the end. The most frustrating thing for a painter was to arrive at the middle and find nothing there. No amount of rummaging about in his bag of technical tricks could save the situation and the best thing to do was take the hint, clean one’s brushes and go off fishing in the boat on the river. Dominic was a devoted fisherman and probably half the protein which sustained him in those years came from the river. People around here consider catfish &nbsp;trash, bottom feeders. Dominic loved catfish. They were bottom feeders Dominic would say, but so were artists. He rolled the flesh in a sweet dough and deep fried it. Delicious. Dominic would fillet the cats, if that is the word, for getting the flesh off those plated creatures was more of a hacking job than filleting. He put the pieces in margerine containers, filled them with water and brought them over for me to put in the freezer. Dominic, of course, didn’t have a freezer. And if he did have one, when they cut off his electricity, as they did regularly, the catfish would have been ruined.”<br /><br />“He was also a gardener and as was usual for Dominic a radical one. He wouldn’t use chemical fertilizer or pesticides. He peed into two liter jars – &nbsp;pickle bottles he salvaged from the lanes – and, after diluting the urine five to one with water, poured it on the garden. Urine he said was even higher in nutrients than solid waste. He also composted his solid waste, very carefully for you have to watch the e coli. Apparently the trick is to get the temperature of the compost pile high enough to kill the e coli. The human waste compost was kept separate from the ordinary pile and sat in the backyard in a place where it received full sun. He had a thermometer which measured the temperature in the center of the pile and even after it reached the required point he left it another year to be sure. He said that industrial civilization was the only one which did not compost its own waste, preferring instead, for the most part, to dump it into the environment untreated. So foolish were the citizens of industrial societies that they did not realize ecological processes are circular and this meant that in essence, they were condemning themselves to eating their own shit.”<br /><br />“Dominic grew lovely vegetables. He especially loved beets, tomatoes, green pepper and potatoes. To accompany our deep fried catfish he would make a stir fry composed of a dozen vegetables from the garden, cooked in a Chinese wok. His rickety house had a earth floored basement and here he kept his root vegetables in five gallon plastic pails he got from the lanes, of course. He bore small holes in them for air and laid the vegetables in between layers of dried grass clipping. The pails were for the mice who otherwise would have eaten everything there were so many of them. He refused to trap or poison them. He claimed they had as much a right to live as he did. He controlled them somewhat by putting all his food in containers. But still, when you lay in bed at night, you could hear them scurrying about nibbling and squeaking. Dominic said he found their noises comforting. I found them creepy and when I said so Dominic laughed. He said that most women were nervous of the natural world because of their uteruses and their babies.”<br /><br />Alexandra raised her eyebrows at this. “Well dear,” said Regina, “Dominic wasn’t much concerned with political correctness.”<br /><br />Alexandra smiled. Her own opinions on such things were not as conventional as Regina assumed. She could see what the old painter was driving at.<br /><br />“How was it when he got old, Regina. Did he mind getting old?” she asked.<br /><br />“A little at first I think but then he adapted. The chief joy of his old age was the government pension. “No more mopping floors,” he said. “No more Kraft dinner.” In his case this was true. His expenses were always bare boned so he was, relatively speaking, rich on the pension. He even saved money because with the way he lived he couldn’t spend it all. He bought himself a second hand aluminum boat. When we were sixty-seven – we were the same age – we went on a four week trip to the coast. He was so distressed by the amounts we paid for food, hotel rooms, etc., that we figured out the total cost and he gave me his share of the money in cash. If I was paying then he could forget about it you see. From that trip he got perhaps five years of paintings. It was the first time he had been outside the city since he was a teenager. He was like a poor kid from the inner city at a vacation camp for the first time. He filled so many sketch books that we had to send most of them home by mail for there was not enough room in the bags.”<br /><br /><br />“How old was he when he died?”<br /><br />“Seventy-seven. Lung cancer. He was a smoker, starting when he was twelve or thirteen. He grew his own tobacco in the back yard and smoked it in a corn cob pipe like General McArthur. When he got the diagnosis he put away the pipe in the cupboard and that was that. Of course it was already too late to stop the cancer. They wanted to give him chemo but he said no. “Cancer is bad enough without chemo,” he said. Even at the end he wouldn’t go to the hospital. The doctor gave him morphine. He simplified things in the house so he could still look after himself when he weakened. But he didn’t stop working. On the day he died, late in the afternoon, he spent three hours in the morning working on a painting. A good one too.”<br /><br />“In the last month I moved in to help him. At first he resisted but then he seemed to accept it as an inevitable thing. There wasn’t really that much to do for he could still get around but I was horrified by the thought of his dying alone. He knew that I think and let me come for my sake more than his own.”<br /><br />“A man like that who was such an oppositionist, a critic, a complainer, a rabble rouser, an iconoclast, you would think dying would be hard for him. But, at least observed from the outside, it wasn’t. He never complained. People came to visit him – when they phoned I set up times in the morning when he was at his best – and he told them jokes. He had a will of iron. During the visiting time, between nine and eleven, he didn’t cough once. When it was over he was so racked with coughing I thought several times he would die on me right then.”<br /><br />“He became very thin and his walk became a controlled stagger. He used a cane but if, worried about him falling I put out my arms to help, he would brush me off, not unkindly but firmly. Even during the last week – it was summer- he walked through the kitchen onto the back porch and sat in the afternoon shade. He did this on the afternoon he died. When he was seated in the chair he asked me to go to the corner store and bring him back an ice cream. I knew then but I pretended I didn’t. And I think he knew I knew. It was one of those things between old lovers or old friends. When I came back he was dead. I think he rose and walked to the edge of the porch to look at the river. Then he lay down on the deck – he didn’t fall the doctor said, there were no bruises - stretched out and died. Some people die in a way that their bodies are totally relaxed and others are tightened up, their faces a grimace. Dominic was relaxed. His face was as smooth as a baby’s. I wept for an hour before I could gather the strength to call the doctor. And I covered his face with kisses, more perhaps than I had covered it with when he was alive.”<br /><br />Alexandra reached out to pat Regina’s hand but the old lady’s eyes were dry and she was looking across the dining room to where a middle aged woman was seated alone at a table eating Cornish hen. Regina picked up the check from the table.<br /><br />“Do you still think he was a bum, Regina?” Alexandra asked.<br /><br />The old woman smiled and said, “O he was a bum all right my Dominic. But he was a glorious bum.”<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp;<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />D.W.E. Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03403269384193446020noreply@blogger.com1